/-^ 


«  I 


/  - 


V 


University  of  California  •  Berkeley 

From  the  Bequest 

of 

Dorothy  K.  Thomas 


Franklin  Square,  New  York,  August,  1860. 


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THE 


WOMAN  IN   WHITE. 


^  Noutl. 


BY    WILKIE    COLLINS, 

AUTHOR  OF  * 

"THE  QUEEN  OF  HEARTS,"  "ANTONINA,"  "THE  DEAD  SECRET/'  "AFTER  DARK," 

&c.,  &c.,  &c. 


ILLUSTRATED  BY  JOHN  McLENAN. 


NEW  YORK: 

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and  sixty,  by 

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York. 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


PKEAMBLE. 

This  is  the  story  of  what  a  Woman's  patience 
can  endure,  and  of  what  a  Man's  resolution  can 
achieve. 

If  the  machinery  of  the  Law  could  be  depend- 
ed on  to  fathom  every  case  of  suspicion,  and  to 
conduct  every  process  of  inquiry,  with  moderate 
assistance  only  from  the  lubricating  influences 
of  oil  of  gold,  the  events  which  fill  these  pages 
might  have  claimed  their  share  of  the  public 
attention  in  a  Court  of  Justice. 

But  the  Law  is  still,  in  certain  inevitable 
cases,  the  pre-engaged  servant  of  the  long  purse ; 
and  the  story  is  left  to  be  told,  for  the  first  time, 
in  this  place.  As  the  Judge  might  once  have 
heard  it,  so  the  Reader  shall  hear  it  now.  No 
circumstance  of  importance,  from  the  beginning 
to  the  end  of  the  disclosure,  shall  be  related  on 
hearsay  evidence.  When  the  writer  of  these 
introductory  lines  (Walter  Hartright  by  name) 
happens  to  be  more  closely  connected  than  oth- 
ers with  the  incidents  to  be  recorded,  he  will 
describe  them  in  his  own  person.  When  his 
experience  fails,  he  will  retire  from  the  position 
of  narrator;  and  his  task  will  be  continued, 
from  the  point  at  which  he  has  left  it  off,  by 
other  persons  who  can   spenk  to  tlie  circum- 


stances under  notice  from  their  own  knowledge, 
just  as  clearly  and  positively  as  he  has  spoken 
before  them. 

Thus,  the  story  here  presented  will  be  told  by 
more  than  one  pen,  as  the  story  of  an  offense 
against  the  laws  is  told  in  Court  by  more  than 
one  witness  —  with  the  same  object,  in  both 
cases,  to  present  the  truth  always  in  its  most 
direct  and  most  intelligible  aspect ;  and  to  trace 
the  course  of  one  complete  series  of  events,  by 
making  the  persons  who  have  been  most  closely 
connected  with  them,  at  each  successive  stage, 
relate  their  own  experience,  word  for  word. 

Let  Walter  Hartright,  teacher  of  drawing, 
aged  twenty-eight  years,  be  heard  first. 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  WALTER  HART- 
RIGHT, OF  CLEaiENT'S  INN,  LONDON. 
I, 

It  was  the  last  day  of  July.  The  long  hot 
summer  was  drawing  to  a  close ;  and  we,  the 
weary  pilgrims  of  the  London  pavement,  were 
beginning  to  think  of  the  cloud-shadows  on  the 
corn-fields,  and  the  autumn  breezes  on  the  sea- 
shore. 

For  my  own  poo/'  part,  the  fading  summer 
left  me  out  of  health,  out  of  spirits,  and,  if  the 
truth  must  be  told,  out  of  money  as  well.  Dur- 
ing the  past  year,  I  had  not  managed  my  pro- 
fessional resources  as  carefully  as  usual;  and 
my  extravagance  now  limited  me  to  the  prospect 
of  spending  the  autumn  economically  between 
my  mother's  cottage  at  Ham])stead,  and  my  own 
chambers  in  town. 

The  evening,  I  remember,  was  still  and 
cloudy ;  the  London  air  was  at  its  heaviest ; 
the  distant  hum  of  the  street-traffic  was  at  its 
faintest ;  the  small  pulse  of  the  life  within  me 
and  the  great  heart  of  the  city  around  me 
seemed  to  be  sinking  in  unison,  languidly  and 
more  languidly,  with  the  sinking  sun.  I  roused 
myself  from  the  book  which  I  was  dreaminii 
over  rather  than  reading,  and  left  my  chambers 
to  meet  the  cool  night  air  in  the  suburbs.  It 
was  one  of  the  two  evenings  in  every  week 
which  I  was  accustomed  to'  spend  with  my 
mother  and  my  sister.  So  I  turned  my  steps 
northward,  in  the  direction  of  Hampstead. 

Events  which  I  have  yet  to  relate  make  it 
necessary  to  mention  in  this  place  that  my  fa- 
ther had  been  dead  some  years  at  the  period  of 
which  I  am  now  writing,  and  that  my  sister 
Sarah  and  I  were  the  sole  suiwivors  of  a  fam- 
ily of  five  children.  My  father  was  a  drawing- 
master  before  me.  His  exertions  had  made 
him  highly  successful  in  his  profession  ;  and 
his  affectionate  anxiety  to  provide  for  the  fu- 
ture of  those  who  were  dependent  on  his  la- 


THE  WOMAN  IN  "WHITE. 


bors,  had  impelled  him,  from  the  time  of  his 
marriage,  to  devote  to  the  insuring  of  liis  life  a 
much  larger  portion  of  his  income  than  most 
men  consider  it  necessary  to  set  aside  for  that 
purpose.  Thanks  to  his  admirable  prudence 
and  self-denial,  my  mother  and  sister  were  left, 
after  his  death,  as  independent  of  the  world  as 
they  had  been  during  his  lifetime.  I  succeed- 
ed to  his  connection,  and  had  every  reason  to 
feel  grateful  for  the  prospect  that  awaited  me 
at  my  starting  in  life. 

The  quiet  twilight  was  still  trembling  on  the 
topmost  ridges  of  the  heath ;  and  the  view  of 
London  below  me  had  sunk  into  a  black  gulf 
in  the  shadow  of  the  cloudy  night,  when  I 
stood  before  the  gate  of  my  mother's  cottage. 
I  had  hardly  rung  the  l)ell,  before  the  house- 
door  was  opened  violently ;  my  Avorthy  Italian 
friend,  Professor  Pesca,  appeared  in  the  serv- 
ant's place ;  and  darted  out  joyously  to  receive 
me,  with  a  shrill  foreign  parody  on  an  English 
cheer. 

On  his  own  account,  and,  I  must  be  allowed 
to  add,  on  mine  also,  the  Professor  merits  the 
honor  of  a  formal  introduction.  Accident  has 
made  him  the  starting-point  of  the  strange  fam- 
ily story  which  it  is  the  purpose  of  these  pages 
to  unfold. 

I  had  first  become  acquainted  with  my  Italian 
friend  by  meeting  him  at  certain  great  houses, 
where  he  taught  his  own  language  and  I  taught 
drawing.  All  I  then  knew  of  the  history  of  his 
life  was,  that  he  had  once  held  a  situation  in 
the  University  of  Padua ;  that  he  had  left  It- 
aly for  political  reasons  (the  nature  of  which 
he  uniformly  declined  to  mention  to  any  one) ; 
and  that  he  had  been  for  many  years  respect- 
ably established  in  London  as  a  teacher  of  lan- 
guages. 

Without  being  actually  a  dwarf — for  he  was 
perfectly  well-proportioned  from  head  to  foot 
— Pesca  was,  I  think,  the  smallest  human  being 
I  ever  saw,  out  of  a  show-room.  Remarkable 
any  where,  by  his  personal  appearance,  he  was 
still  further  distinguished  among  the  rank  and 
file  of  mankind,  by  the  harmless  eccentricity  of 
his  character.  The  ruling  idea  of  his  life  ap- 
peared to  be,  that  he  was  bound  to  show  his 
gratitude  to  the  country  which  had  afforded 
liim  an  asylum  and  a  means  of  subsistence,  by 
doing  bis  utmost  to  turn  himself  into  an  En- 
glishman. Not  content  with  paying  the  nation 
in  general  the  compliment  of  invariably  carry- 
ing an  umbrella,  and  invariably  wearing  gaiters 
and  a  white  hat,  the  Professor  further  aspired 
to  become  an  Englishman  in  his  habits  and 
amusements,  as  well  as  in  his  personal  appear- 
ance. Finding  us  distinguished,  as  a  nation, 
by  our  love  of  athletic  exercises,  the  little  man, 
in  the  innocence  of  his  heart,  devoted  himself 
im])romptu  to  all  our  English  sports  and  pas- 
times, whenever  he  had  the  o])portunity  of 
joining  them ;  firmly  persuaded  tliat  he  could 
adopt  our  national  amusements  of  the  field,  by 
an  effort  of  will,  precisely  as  he  had  adopted 
our  national  gaiters  and  our  national  white  hat. 

I  had  seen  him  risk  his  limbs  blindly  at  a 
fox-hunt  and  in  a  cricket-field ;  and,  soon  aft- 
erward, I  saw  him  risk  his  life,  just  as  blindly, 
in  the  sea  at  Brighton.  We  hud  met  there  ac- 
cidentally, and  were  bathing  together.  If  we 
had  been  engaged  in  any  exercise  peculiar  to 


my  own  nation,  I  should,  of  course,  have  look- 
ed after  Pesca  carefully ;  but,  as  foreigners  are 
generally  quite  as  well  able  to  take  care  of 
themselves  in  the  water  as  Englishmen,  it  nev- 
er occurred  to  me  that  the  art  of  swimming 
might  merely  add  one  more  to  the  list  of  man- 
ly exercises  which  the  Professor  believed  that 
he  could  learn  impromptu.  Soon  after  we  had 
both  struck  out  from  shore,  I  stopped,  finding 
my  friend  did  not  gain  on  me,  and  turned 
round  to  look  for  him.  To  my  horror  and 
amazement,  I  saw  nothing  between  me  and  the 
beach  but  two  little  white  arms,  which  strug- 
gled for  an  instant  above  the  surface  of  the  wa- 
ter, and  then  disappeared  from  view.  When  I 
dived  for  him,  the  poor  little  man  was  lying 
quietly  coiled  up  at  the  bottom,  in  a  hollow  of 
shingle,  looking  by  many  degrees  smaller  than 
I  had  ever  seen  him  look  before.  During  the 
few  minutes  that  elapsed  while  I  was  taking 
him  in,  the  air  revived  him,  and  he  ascended 
the  steps  of  the  machine  with  my  assistance. 
With  the  partial  recovery  of  his  animation  came 
the  return  of  his  wonderful  delusion  on  the  sub- 
ject of  swimming.  As  soon  as  his  chattering 
teeth  would  let  him  speak,  he  smiled  vacant- 
ly, and  said  he  thought  it  must  have  been  the 
Cramp. 

When  he  had  thoroughly  recovered  himself 
and  had  joined  me  on  the  beach,  his  warm 
Southern  nature  broke  through  all  artificial  En- 
glish restraints,  in  a  moment.  He  overwhelmed 
me  with  the  wildest  expressions  of  affection — 
exclaimed  passionately,  in  his  exaggerated  Ital- 
ian way,  that  he  would  hold  his  life,  henceforth, 
at  my  disposal — and  declared  that  he  should 
never  be  happy  again,  until  he  had  found  an  op- 
portunity of  pi'oving  his  gratitude  by  rendering 
me  some  service  which  I  might  remember,  on 
my  side,  to  the  end  of  my  days.  I  did  my  best 
to  stop  the  torrent  of  his  tears  and  protestations, 
by  persisting  in  treating  the  whole  adventure  as 
a  good  subject  for  a  joke ;  and  succeeded  at  last, 
as  I  imagined,  in  lessening  Pesca's  overwhelm- 
ing sense  of  obligation  to  me.  Little  did  I  think 
then — little  did  I  think  afterward  when  our 
pleasant  Brighton  holiday  had  drawn  to  an  end 
— that  the  opportunity  of  serving  me  for  which 
my  grateful  companion  so  ardently  longed,  was 
soon  to  come ;  that  he  was  eagerly  to  seize  it  on 
the  instant ;  and  that,  by  so  doing,  he  was  to 
turn  the  whole  current  of  my  existence  into  a 
new  channel,  and  to  alter  me  to  myself  almost 
past  recognition. 

Yet,  so  it  was.  If  I  had  not  dived  for  Pro- 
fessor Pesca,  when  he  lay  under  water  on  his 
shingle  bed,  I  should,  in  all  human  probability, 
never  have  been  connected  with  the  story  which 
these  pages  will  relate — I  should  never,  perhaps, 
have  heard  even  the  name  of  the  woman,  who 
has  lived  in  all  my  thoughts,  who  has  possessed 
herself  of  all  my  energies,  who  has  become  the 
one  guiding  influence  that  now  directs  the  pur- 
pose of  my  life. 

II. 

Pesca's  face  and  manner,  on  the  evening 
when  we  confronted  cacli  other  at  my  mother's 
gate,  were  more  than  sufficient  to  inform  me 
that  something  extraordinary  had  happened. 
It  was  quite  useless,  however,  to  ask  him  for 
an  immediate  explanation.     I  could  only  con- 


THE  WOMAi?  IN  WHITE. 


jecture,  while  he  was  drasjging  me  in  by  both 
hands,  that  (knowing  my  habits)  he  had  come 
to  the  cottage  to  make  sure  of  meeting  me  that 
night,  and  that  he  had  some  news  to  tell  of  an 
unusually  agreeable  kind. 

We  both  bounced  into  the  parlor  in  a  highly 
abrupt  and  undignified  manner.  My  mother 
sat  by  the  open  window,  laughing  and  fanning 
herself.  Pesca  was  one  of  her  especial  favor- 
ites; and  his  wildest  eccentricities  were  always 
jmrdonable  in  her  eyes.  Poor  dear  soul !  from 
the  first  moment  when  she  found  out  that  the 
little  Professor  was  deeply  and  gratefully  at- 
tached to  her  son,  she  opened  her  heart  to  him 
unreservedly,  and  took  all  his  puzzling  foreign 
peculiarities  for  granted,  without  so  much  as 
attempting  to  understand  any  one  of  tliem. 

My  sister  Sarah,  with  all  the  advantages  of 
youth,  was,  strangely  enough,  less  pliable.  She 
did  full  justice  to  Pesca's  excellent  qualities  of 
heart ;  but  she  could  not  accept  him  implicitly, 
as  my  mother  accepted  him,  for  my  sake.  Her 
insular  notions  of  propriety  rose  in  perpetual  re- 
volt against  Pesca's  constitutional  contempt  for 
appearances ;  and  she  was  always  more  or  less 
undisguisedly  astonished  at  her  mother's  famil- 
iarity with  the  eccentric  little  foreigner.  I  have 
observed,  not  only  in  my  sister's  case,  but  in  the 
instances  of  others,  that  we  of  the  young  gener- 
ation are  nothing  like  so  hearty  and  so  impuls- 
ive as  some  of  our  elders.  I  constantly  see  old 
people  flushed  and  excited  by  the  prospect  of 
some  anticipated  pleasure  which  altogether  fails 
to  ruffle  the  tranquillity  of  their  serene  grand- 
children. Are  we,  I  wonder,  quite  such  genuine 
boys  and  girls  now  as  our  seniors  were,  in  their 
time?  Has  the  great  advance  in  education 
taken  rather  too  long  a  stride ;  and  are  we,  in 
these  modern  days,  just  the  least  trifle  in  the 
world  too  well  brought  up  ? 

Without  attempting  to  answer  those  questions 
decisively,  I  may  at  least  record  that  I  never 
saw  my  mother  and  my  sister  together  in  Pesca's 
society,  without  finding  my  mother  much  the 
younger  woman  of  the  two.  On  this  occasion, 
for  example,  while  the  old  lady  was  laughing 
heartily  over  the  boyish  manner  in  which  we 
tumbled  into  the  parlor,  Sarah  was  perturbedly 
picking  up  the  broken  pieces  of  a  tea-cup,  which 
the  Professor  had  knocked  off  the  table  in  his 
precipitate  advance  to  meet  me  at  the  door. 

"I  don't  know  what  would  have  happened, 
Walter,"  said  my  mother,  "if  you  had  delayed 
much  longer.  Pesca  has  been  half-mad  with 
impatience ;  and  I  have  been  half-mad  with 
curiosity.  The  Professor  has  brought  some 
wonderful  news  with  him,  in  which  he  says  you 
are  concerned;  and  he  has  cruelly  refused  to 
give  us  the  smallest  hint  of  it  till  his  friend 
Walter  appeared. 

"Very  provoking:  it  spoils  the  Set,"  mur- 
mured Sarah  to  herself,  mournfully  absorbed 
over  the  ruins  of  the  broken  cup. 

While  these  words  were  being  spoken,  Pesca, 
happily  and  fussily  unconscious  of  the  irrepar- 
able wrong  which  the  crockery  had  suffered  at 
his  hands,  was  dragging  a  large  arm-chair  to  the 
opposite  end  of  the  room,  so  as  to  command  us 
all  three,  in  the  character  of  a  public  speaker 
addressing  an  audience.  Having  turned  the 
chair  with  its  back  toward  us,  he  jumped  into 
it  on  his  knees,  and  excitably  addressed  his 


small  congregation  of  three  from  an  impromptu 
pulpit. 

"  Now,  my  good  dears,"  began  Pesca  (who 
always  said  "  good  dears"  when  he  meant 
"worthy  friends"),  "listen  to  me.  The  time 
has  come — I  recite  my  good  news — I  speak  at 
last." 

"  Hear,_hear !"  said  my  mother,  humoring  the 
joke. 

"The  next  thing  he  will  break,  mamma," 
whispered  Sarah,  "  will  be  the  back  of  the  best 
arm-chair." 

"I  go  back  into  my  life,  and  I  address  my- 
self to  the  noblest  of  created  beings,"  continued 
Pesca,  vehemently  apostrophizing  my  unworthy 
self,  over  the  top  rail  of  the  chair.  "Who  found 
me  dead  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea  (through 
Cramp) ;  and  who  pulled  me  up  to  the  top ;  and 
what  did  I  say  when  I  got  into  my  own  life  and 
my  own  clothes  again  ?" 

"Much  more  than  was  at  all  necessaiy,"  I 
answered,  as  doggedly  as  possible  ;  for  the  least 
encouragement  in  connection  with  this  subject 
invariably  let  loose  the  Professor's  emotions  in 
a  flood  of  tears. 

"I  said,"  persisted  Pesca,  "that  my  life  be- 
longed to  my  dear  friend,  Walter,  for  the  rest 
of  my  days — and  so  it  does.  I  said  that  I  should 
never  be  happy  again  till  I  had  found  the  op- 
portunity of  doing  a  good  Something  for  Wal- 
ter— and  I  have  never  been  contented  with  my- 
self till  this  most  blessed  day.  Now,"  cried  the 
enthusiastic  little  man  at  the  top  of  his  voice, 
"the  overflowing  hajipiness  bursts  out  of  me  at 
every  pore  of  my  skin,  like  a  perspiration ;  for 
on  my  faith,  and  soul,  and  honor,  the  Some- 
thing is  done  at  last,  and  the  only  word  to  say 
now,  is — Right-all-right !" 

It  may  be  necessary  to  explain,  here,  that 
Pesca  prided  himself  on  being  a  perfect  En- 
glishman in  his  language,  as  well  as  in  his  dress, 
manners,  and  amusements.  Having  picked  up 
a  few  of  our  most  familiar  colloquial  expres- 
sions, he  scattered  them  about  over  his  conver- 
sation whenever  they  happened  to  occur  to  him, 
turning  them,  in  his  high  relish  for  their  sound 
and  his  general  ignorance  of  their  sense,  into 
compound  words  and  repetitions  of  his  own,  and 
always  running  them  into  each  other,  as  if  they 
consisted  of  one  long  syllable. 

"Among  the  fine  London  houses  where  I 
teach  the  language  of  my  native  country,"  said 
the  Professor,  rushing  into  his  long-deferred 
ex])lanation  without  another  word  of  preface, 
"there  is  one,  mighty  fine,  in  the  big  place 
called  Portland.  You  all  know  where  that  is? 
Yes,  yes — course-of-course.  The  fine  house, 
my  good  dears,  has  got  inside  it  a  fine  family. 
A  Mamma,  fair  and  fat ;  three  young  Misses, 
fair  and  fat;  two  young  Misters,  fair  and  fat; 
and  a  Papa,  tlie  fairest  and  fattest  of  all,  who 
is  a  mighty  merchant,  up  to  his  eyes  in  gold — 
a  fine  man  once,  but  seeing  that  he  has  got  a 
naked  head  and  two  chins,  fine  no  longer  at  the 
present  time.  Now  mind!  I  teach  the  sub- 
lime Dante  to  the  young  Misses,  and  ah  ! — my- 
soul-bless-my-soul ! — it  is  not  in  human  lan- 
guage to  say  how  the  sublime  Dante  puzzles  the 
pretty  heads  of  all  three !  No  matter — all  in 
good  time — and  the  more  lessons  the  better  for 
me.  Now  mind!  Imagine  to  yourselves  that 
I  am  teaching  the  young  Misses  to-day,  as  usual. 


8 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


We  are  all  four  of  us  down  together  in  the  Hell 
of  Dante.  At  the  Seventh  Circle — but  no  mat- 
ter for  that :  all  the  Circles  are  alike  to  the  three 
young  Misses,  fair  and  fat — at  the  Seventh  Cir- 
cle, nevertheless,  my  pupils  are  sticking  fast; 
and  I,  to  set  them  going  again,  recite,  explain, 
and  blow  myself  up  red-hot  with  useless  enthu- 
siasm, when — a  creak  of  boots  in  the  passage 
outside,  and  in  comes  the  golden  Papa,  the 
mighty  merchant  with  the  naked  head  and  the 
two  chins. — Ha!  my  good  dears,  I  am  closer 
than  you  think  for  to  the  business,  now.  Have 
you  been  patient,  so  far?  or  have  you  said  to 
yourselves,  'Deuce-what-the-deuce!  Pesca  is 
long-winded  to-night  ?' " 

We  declared  that  we  were  deeply  interested. 
The  Professor  went  on : 

"  In  his  hand,  the  golden  Papa  has  a  letter ; 
and  after  he  has  made  his  excuse  for  disturbing 
us  in  our  Infernal  Region  with  the  common 
mortal  business  of  the  house,  he  addresses  him- 
self to  the  three  young  Misses,  and  begins,  as 
you  English  begin  every  thing  in  this  blessed 
world  that  you  have  to  say,  with  a  great  O. 
'  O,  my  dears,'  says  the  mighty  merchant,  '  I 
have  got  here  a  letter  from   my  friend,    Mr. 

'  (the  name  has  slipped  out  of  my  mind ; 

but  no  matter;  we  shall  come  back  to  that:  yes, 
yes — right-all-right).  So  the  Papa  says,  'I  have 
got  a  letter  from  my  friend,  the  Mister;  and  he 
wants  a  recommend  from  me,  of  a  drawing- 
master,  to  go  down  to  his  house  in  the  country.' 
My-soul-bless-my-soul !  when  I  heard  the  golden 
Papa  say  those  words,  if  I  had  been  big  enough 
to  reach  up  to  him,  I  should  have  put  my  arms 
round  his  neck,  and  pressed  him  to  my  bosom 
in  a  long  and  gi-ateful  hug!  As  it  was,  I  only 
bounced  upon  my  chair.  My  seat  was  on  thorns, 
and  my  soul  was  on  fire  to  speak ;  but  I  held 
my  tongue,  and  let  Papa  go  on.  '  Perhaps  you 
know,'  says  this  good  man  of  money,  twiddling 
his  friend's  letter  this  way  and  that,  in  his  gold- 
en fingers  and  thumbs,  '  perhaps  you  know,  my 
dears,  of  a  drawing-master  that  I  can  recom- 
mend?' The  three  young  Misses  all  look  at 
each  other,  and  then  say  (with  the  indispensa- 
ble great  O  to  begin),  '  O,  dear  no.  Papa!  But 
here  is  Mr.  Pesca — '  At  the  mention  of  my- 
self I  can  hold  no  longer — the  thought  of  you, 
my  good  dears,  mounts  like  blood  to  my  head 
— I  start  from  my  seat,  as  if  a  spike  had  grown 
up  from  the  ground  through  the  bottom  of  my 
chair — I  address  myself  to  the  mighty  mer- 
chant, and  I  say  (English  phrase),  '  Dear  Sir,  I 
have  the  man !  The  first  and  foremost  draw- 
ing-master of  the  world!  Recommend  him  by 
the  post  to-night,  and  send  him  ofi',  bag  and 
baggage  (English phrase  again — ha?),  send  him 
oft',  bag  and  baggage,  by  the  train  to-morrow!' 
'Stop,  stop,'  says  the  Papa,  'is  he  a  foreigner 
or  an  Englishman  ?'  '  English  to  the  bone  of  his 
back,'  I  answer.  'Respectable?'  says  Papa. 
'Sir,'  I  say  (for  this  last  question  of  his  out- 
rages me,  and  I  have  done  being  familiar  with 
him),  '  Sir,  the  immortal  fire  of  genius  burns  in 
this  Englishman's  bosom,  and,  what  is  more, 
his  father  had  it  before  him  !'  'Never  mind,' 
says  the  golden  barbarian  of  a  Papa, '  never  mind 
about  his  genius,  Mr.  Pesca.  We  don't  want 
genius  in  this  country,  unless  it  is  accompanied 
by  respectability — and  then  we  are  very  glad  to 
have  it,  veiy  glad  indeed.     Can  your   friend 


produce  testimonials — letters  that  speak  to  his 
character?'  I  wave  my  hand  negligently. 
'Letters?'  I  say.  'Ha!  my-soul-bless-my- 
soul!  I  should  think  so,  indeed!  Volumes  of 
letters  and  port-folios  of  testimonials,  if  jou 
like?'  'One  or  two  will  do,'  says  this  man  of 
phlegm  and  money.  'Let  him  send  them  to 
me,  with  his  name  and  address.  And — stop, 
stop,  Mr.  Pesca — before  you  go  to  your  friend, 
you  had  better  take  a  note.'  '  Bank-note !'  I 
say,  indignantly.  '  No  bank-note,  if  you  please, 
till  my  brave  Englishman  has  earned  it  first.' 
'Bank-note?'  says  Papa,  in  a  great  surprise, 
'who  talked  of  bank-note?  I  mean  a  note  of 
the  terms — a  memorandum  of  what  he  is  ex- 
pected to  do.  Go  on  with  your  lesson,  Mr. 
Pesca,  and  I  will  give  you  the  necessary  extract 
from  my  friend's  letter.'  Down  sits  the  man 
of  merchandise  and  money  to  his  pen,  ink,  and 
paper ;  and  down  I  go  once  again  into  the  Hell 
of  Dante,  with  my  three  young  Misses  after  me. 
In  ten  minutes'  time  the  note  is  written,  and 
the  boots  of  Papa  are  creaking  themselves  away 
in  the  passage  outside.  From  that  moment,  on 
my  faith,  and  soul,  and  honor,  I  know  nothing 
more !  The  glorious  thought  that  I  have  caught 
my  opportunity  at  last,  and  that  my  grateful 
service  for  my  dearest  friend  in  the  world  is  as 
good  as  done  already,  flies  up  into  my  head  and 
makes  me  drunk.  How  I  pull  my  young  Misses 
and  myself  out  of  our  Infernal  Region  again, 
how  my  other  business  is  done  afterward,  how 
my  little  bit  of  dinner  slides  itself  down  my 
throat,  I  know  no  more  than  a  man  in  the  moon. 
Enough  for  me,  that  here  I  am,  with  the  mighty 
merchant's  note  in  my  hand,  as  large  as  life,  as 
hot  as  fire,  and  as  happy  as  a  king!  Ha!  ha! 
ha !  right-right-right-all-right !"  Here  the  Pro- 
fessor waved  the  memorandum  of  terms  over 
his  head,  and  ended  his  long  and  voluble  narra- 
tive with  his  shrill  Italian  parody  on  an  English 
cheer. 

My  mother  rose  the  moment  he  had  done, 
with  flushed  cheeks  and  brightened  eyes.  She 
caught  the  little  man  warmly  by  both  hands. 

"  My  dear,  good  Pesca,"  she  said,  "  I  never 
doubted  your  true  affection  for  Walter — but  I 
am  more  than  ever  persuaded  of  it  now !" 

"  I  am  sure  we  are  very  much  obliged  to  Pro- 
fessor Pesca,  for  Walter's  sake,"  added  Sarah. 
She  half  rose,  while  she  spoke,  as  if  to  approach 
the  arm-chair,  in  her  turn;  but,  observing  that 
Pesca  was  rapturously  kissing  my  mother's 
hands,  looked  serious,  and  resumed  her  seat. 
"  If  the  familiar  little  man  treats  my  mother  in 
that  way,  hoAv  will  he  treat  inef  Faces  some- 
times tell  truth ;  and  that  was  unquestionably 
the  thought  in  Sarah's  mind,  as  she  sat  down 
again. 

Although  I  was  myself  gratefully  sensible  of 
the  kindness  of  Pesca's  motives,  my  spirits  were 
hardly  so  much  elevated  as  they  ought  to  have 
been  by  the  prospect  of  future  employment  now 
placed  before  me.  When  the  Professor  had 
quite  done  with  my  mother's  hands,  and  when 
I  had  warmly  thanked  him  for  his  interference 
on  my  behalf,  I  asked  to  be  allowed  to  look  at 
the  note  of  terms  which  his  respectable  patron 
had  drawn  up  for  my  inspection. 

Pesca  handed  me  the  paper,  with  a  triumph- 
ant flourish  of  the  hand. 

"Read!"   said  the  little  man,  majestically. 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


"  I  promise  you,  my  friend,  the  writing  of  tlie 
golden  Papa  speaks  witli  a  tongue  of  trumpets 
for  itself." 

The  note  of  terms  was  plain,  straightforward, 
and  comprehensive,  at  any  rate.  It  informed 
me, 

First,  That  Frederick  Fairlie,  Esquire,  of  Lim- 
meridge  House,  Cumberland,  wanted  to  engage 
the  services  of  a  thoroughly  competent  drawing- 
master,  for  a  period  of  four  months  certain. 

Secondly,  That  the  duties  which  the  master 
was  expected  to  perform  would  be  of  a  two-fold 
kind.  He  was  to  superintend  the  instruction 
of  two  young  ladies  in  the  art  of  painting  in 
water-colors ;  and  he  was  to  devote  his  leisure 
time,  afterward,  to  the  business  of  arranging 
and  mounting  a  valuable  collection  of  drawings 
which  had  been  sutTered  to  fall  into  a  condition 
of  total  neglect. 

Thirdly,  That  the  terms  offered  to  the  per- 
son who  should  undertake  and  properly  perform 
these  duties,  were  four  guineas  a  week  ;  that  he 
was  to  reside  at  Limmeridge  House ;  and  that 
he  was  to  be  treated  there  on  the  footing  of  a 
gentleman. 

Fourthly,  and  lastly.  That  no  person  need 
think  of  applying  for  this  situation,  unless  he 
could  furnish  the  most  unexceptionable  refer- 
ences to  character  and  abilities.  The  references 
were  to  be  sent  to  Mr.  Fairlie's  friend  in  Lon- 
don, who  was  empowered  to  conclude  all  neces- 
sary arrangements.  These  instructions  were 
followed  by  the  name  and  address  of  Pesca's 
employer  in  Portland-place — and  there  the  note, 
or  memorandum,  ended. 

Tlie  prospect  which  this  offer  of  an  engage- 
ment held  out  was  certainly  an  attractive  one. 
The  employment  was  likely  to  be  both  easy  and 
agreeable ;  it  was  proposed  to  me  at  the  autumn 
time  of  year  when  I  was  least  occui)ied ;  and 
the  terms,  judging  by  my  personal  experience  in 
my  profession,  were  surprisingly  liberal.  I  knew 
this  ;  I  knew  that  I  ought  to  consider  myself 
very  fortunate  if  I  succeeded  in  securing  the 
offered  em])loyment — and  yet,  no  sooner  had  I 
read  the  memorandum  than  I  felt  an  inexplica- 
ble unwillingness  within  me  to  stir  in  the  mat- 
ter. I  had  never  in  the  whole  of  my  previous 
experience  found  my  duty  and  my  inclination 
so  painfully  and  so  unaccountably  at  variance 
as  I  found  them  now. 

"Oh,  Walter,  your  father  never  had  such  a 
chance  as  this !"  said  my  mother,  when  she  had 
read  the  note  of  terms  arid  had  handed  it  back 
to  me. 

"  Such  distinguished  people  to  know,"  re- 
marked Sarah,  straightening  herself  in  her 
chair  ;  ' '  and  on  such  gratifying  terms  of  equal- 
ity, too !" 

"Yes,  yes;  the  terms,  in  every  sense,  ai-e 
tempting  enough,"  I  replied,  impatiently.  "But, 
before  I  send  in  my  testimonials,  I  should  like 
a  little  time  to  consider — " 

"  Consider  !"  exclaimed  my  mother.  ' '  Why, 
Walter,  what  is  the  matter  with  you!" 

"Consider!"  echoed  my  sister.  "Wliat  a 
very  extraordinary  thing  to  say,  under  the  cir- 
cumstances !" 

"Consider!"  chimed  in  the  Professor.  "What 
is  there  to  consider  about  ?  Answer  me  this  ! 
Have  you  not  been  complaining  of  your  health, 
and  have  you  not  been  longing  for  what  you  call 


a  smack  of  the  country  breeze?  Well!  there 
in  your  hand  is  the  pujier  that  offers  you  per- 
petual choking  moutbfuls  of  country  breeze,  for 
four  months' time.  Is  it  not  so?  Ha?  Again 
— you  want  money.  Well !  Is  four  golden 
guineas  a  week  nothing  ?  My-soul-bless-my- 
soul !  only  give  it  to  me — and  my  boots  shall 
creak  like  the  golden  Papa's,  with  a  sense  of 
the  overpowering  richness  of  the  man  who  walks 
in  them !  Four  guineas  a  week,  and,  more  than 
that,  the  charming  society  of  two  young  Misses  ; 
and,  more  than  that,  your  bed,  your  breakfast, 
your  dinner,  your  gorging  English  teas  and 
lunches  and  drinks  of  foaming  beer,  all  for  no- 
thing— why,  Walter,  my  dear  good  friend — 
deuce-what-the-deuce  ! — for  the  first  time  in  my 
life  I  have  not  eyes  enough  in  my  head  to  look, 
and  wonder  at  you !" 

Neither  my  mother's  evident  astonishment  at 
my  behavior,  nor  Pesca's  fervid  enumeration  of 
the  advantages  offered  to  me  by  the  new  em- 
ployment, had  any  effect  in  shaking  my  unrea- 
sonable disinclination  to  go  to  Limmeridge 
House.  After  starting  all  the  petty  objections 
that  I  could  think  of  to  going  to  Cumberland ; 
and  after  hearing  them  answered,  one  after  an- 
other, to  my  own  complete  discomfiture,  I  tried 
to  set  up  a  last  obstacle  by  asking  what  was  to 
become  of  my  pupils  in  London,  while  I  was 
teaching  Mr.  Fairlie's  young  ladies  to  sketch 
from  nature.  The  obvious  answer  to  this  was 
that  the  greater  part  of  them  would  be  away  on 
their  autumn  travels,  and  that  the  few  who  re- 
mained at  home  might  be  confided  to  the  care 
of  one  of  my  brother  drawing-masters,  whose 
pupils  I  had  once  taken  off  his  hands  under 
similar  circumstances.  My  sister  reminded  me 
that  this  gentleman  had  expressly  placed  his 
services  at  my  disposal,  during  the  present  sea- 
son, in  case  I  wished  to  leave  town  ;  my  mother 
seriously  appealed  to  me  not  to  let  an  idle  ca- 
price stand  in  the  way  of  my  own  interests  and 
my  own  health  ;  and  Pesca  ]nteously  entreated 
that  I  would  not  wound  him  to  the  heart,  by 
rejecting  the  first  grateful  offer  of  service  that 
he  had  been  able  to  make  to  the  man  who  had 
saved  his  life. 

The  evident  sincerity  and  affection  which  in- 
spired these  remonstrances  would  have  influ- 
enced any  man  with  an  atom  of  good  feeling  in 
his  composition.     Though  I  could  not  conquer 
my  own  unaccountable  perversit}',  I  had  at  least 
virtue  enough  to  be  heartily  ashamed  of  it,  and 
to  end  the  discussion  pleasantly  by  giving  way 
and  promising  to  do  all  that  was  wanted  of  me. 
The  rest  of  the  evening  passed  merrily  enough 
in  humorous  anticipations  of  my  coming  lifi) 
with   the   two   young   ladies    in    Cumberland. 
Pesca,  inspired  by  our  national  grog,  which  ap- 
peared to  get  into  his  head,  in  the  most  marvel- 
ous manner,  five  minutes  after  it  had  gone  down 
his  throat,  asserted  his  claims  to  be  considered 
a  complete  Englishman  by  making  a  series  of 
speeches  in    rapid   succession  ;   proposing  my 
mother's  health,  my  sister's  health,  my  health, 
and  the  healths,  in  mass,  of  Mr.  Fairlie  and  the 
two  young  Misses ;  pathetically  returning  thanks 
himself,  immediately  afterward,  for  the  whole 
party.    "A  secret,  Walter, "said  my  little  friend, 
confidentially,  as  we  walked  home  together.    "  I 
am  flushed  by  the  recollection  of  my  own  elo- 
quence.    My  soul  bursts  itself  with  ambition. 


10 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


One  of  these  days,  I  go  into  your  noble  Parlia- 
ment. It  is  the  dream  of  my  whole  life  to  be 
Honorable  Pesca,  M.P. !" 

The  next  morning  I  sent  my  testimonials 
to  the  Professor's  employer  in  Portland-place. 
Three  days  passed ;  and  I  concluded,  with  secret 
satisfaction,  that  my  papers  had  not  been  found 
sufliciently  explicit.  On  the  fourth  day,  how- 
ever, an  answer  came.  It  announced  that  Mr. 
Fairlie  accepted  my  services,  and  requested  me 
to  start  for  Cumberland  immediately.  All  the 
necessary  instructions  for  my  journey  were  care- 
fully and  clearly  added  in  a  postscript. 

I  made  my  arrangements,  unwillingly  enough, 
for  leaving  London  early  the  next  day.  Toward 
evening  Pesca  looked  in,  on  his  way  to  a  dinner- 
party, to  bid  me  good-by. 

"I  shall  dry  my  tears  in  your  absence,"  said 
the  Professor,  gayly,  "  with  this  glorious  thought. 
It  is  my  auspicious  hand  that  has  given  the  first 
push  to  your  fortune  in  the  Avorld.  Go,  my 
friend !  When  your  sun  shines  in  Cumberland 
(English  proverb),  in  the  name  of  Heaven,  make 
your  hay.  Marry  one  of  the  two  young  Misses  ; 
inherit  the  fat  lands  of  Fairlie ;  become  Honor- 
able Hartright,  M.P. ;  and  when  you  are  on  the 
top  of  the  ladder,  remember  that  Pesca,  at  the 
bottom,  has  done  it  all !" 

I  tried  to  laugh  with  my  little  friend  over  his 
parting  jest,  but  my  spirits  were  not  to  be  com- 
manded. Something  jarred  in  me  almost  pain- 
fully, while  he  was  speaking  his  light  farewell 
words. 

When  I  was  left  alone  again,  nothing  re- 
mained to  be  done  but  to  walk  to  the  Hamp- 
stead  Cottage  and  bid  my  mother  and  Sarah 
good-by. 

III. 

The  heat  had  been  painfully  oppressive  all 
day ;  and  it  was  now  a  close  and  sultry  night. 

My  mother  and  sister  had  spoken  so  many 
last  words,  and  had  begged  me  to  wait  another 
five  minutes  so  many  times,  that  it  was  nearly 
midnight  when  the  servant  locked  the  garden- 
gate  behind  me.  I  walked  forward  a  few  paces 
on  the  shortest  way  back  to  Loudon;  then 
stopped,  and  hesitated. 

The  moon  was  full  and  broad  in  the  dark  blue 
starless  sky ;  and  the  broken  ground  of  the  heath 
looked  wild  enough  in  the  mysterious  light  to 
be  hundreds  of  miles  away  from  the  great  city 
that  lay  beneath  it.  The  idea  of  descending 
any  sooner  than  I  could  help  into  the  heat  and 
gloom  of  London  repelled  me.  The  prospect 
of  going  to  bed  in  my  airless  chambers,  and  the 
prospect  of  gradual  suftbcation,  seemed,  in  my 
present  restless  frame  of  mind  and  body,  to  be 
one  and  the  same  thing.  I  determined  to  stroll 
home  in  the  purer  air,  by  the  most  roundabout 
way  I  could  take ;  to  follow  the  white  winding 
paths  across  the  lonely  heath ;  and  to  approach 
London  through  its  most  open  suburb  by  strik- 
ing into  the  Finchlcy-road,  and  so  getting  back, 
in  the  cool  of  the  new  morning,  by  the  western 
side  of  the  Regent's  Park. 

I  wound  my  way  down  slowly  over  the  Heath, 
enjoying  the  divine  stillness  of  the  scene,  and 
admiring  the  soft  alternations  of  light  and  shade 
as  they  followed  each  other  over  the  broken 
ground  on  every  side  of  me.  So  long  as  I  was 
proceeding  through  this  first  aiid  prettiest  part 


of  my  night-walk,  my  mind  remained  passively 
open  to  the  impressions  produced  by  the  view; 
and  I  thought  but  little  on  any  subject — indeed, 
so  far  as  my  own  sensations  were  concerned,  I 
can  hardly  say  that  I  thought  at  all. 

But  when  I  had  left  the  Heath,  and  had 
turned  into  the  by-road,  where  there  was  less 
to  see,  the  ideas  naturally  engendered  by  the 
approaching  change  in  my  habits  and  occupa- 
tions, gradually  drew  more  and  more  of  my  at- 
tention exclusively  to  themselves.  By  the  time 
I  had  arrived  at  the  end  of  the  road,  I  had  be- 
come completely  absorbed  in  my  own  fanciful 
visions  of  Limmeridge  House,  of  Mr.  Fairlie, 
and  of  the  two  ladies  whose  practice  in  the  art 
of  water-color  painting  I  was  so  soon  to  super- 
intend. 

I  had  now  arrived  at  that  particular  point  of 
my  walk  where  four  roads  met  —  the  road  to 
Hampstead,  along  which  I  had  retui-ned ;  the 
road  to  Finchley  and  Barnet ;  the  road  to  Hen- 
don  ;  and  the  road  back  to  London.  I  had  me- 
chanically turned  in  this  latter  dii'ection,  and 
was  strolling  along  the  lonely  high-i'oad — idly 
wondering,  I  remember,  what  the  Cumberland 
young  ladies  would  look  like  —  when,  in  one 
moment,  every  drop  of  blood  in  my  body  was 
brought  to  a  stop  by  the  touch  of  a  hand  laid 
lightly  and  suddenly  on  my  shoulder  from  be- 
hind me. 

I  turned  on  the  instant,  with  my  fingers  tight- 
ening round  the  handle  of  ray  stick. 

There,  in  the  middle  of  the  broad,  bright 
high-road — there,  as  if  it  had  that  moment 
sprung  out  of  the  earth  or  dropped  from  the 
heaven — stood  the  figure  of  a  solitary  Woman, 
dressed  from  head  to  foot  in  white  garments ; 
her  face  bent  in  grave  inquiry  on  mine,  her 
hand  pointing  to  the  dark  cloud  over  London, 
as  I  faced  hei*. 

I  was  far  too  seriously  startled  by  the  sud- 
denness M'ith  which  this  extraordinary  appari- 
tion stood  before  me,  in  the  dead  of  night  and 
in  that  lonely  place,  to  ask  what  she  Avanted. 
The  strange  woman  spoke  first. 

"  Is  that  the  road  to  London?"  she  said. 

I  looked  attentively  at  her,  as  she  put  that 
singular  question  to  me.  It  Avas  then  nearly 
one  o'clock.  All  I  could  discern  distinctly  by 
the  moonlight,  Avas  a  colorless,  youthful  face, 
meagre  and  sharp  to  look  at,  about  the  cheeks 
and  chin ;  large,  grave,  wistfully-attentive  eyes ; 
nervous,  uncertain  lips ;  and  light  hair  of  a  pale, 
broAvnish-yelloAV  hue.  There  Avas  nothing  Avild, 
nothing  immodest  in  her  manner :  it  Avas  quiet 
and  self-controlled,  a  little  melancholy  and  a 
little  touched  by  suspicion ;  not  exactly  the 
manner  of  a  lady,  and,  at  the  same  time,  not 
the  manner  of  a  Avoman  in  the  humblest  rank 
of  life.  The  voice,  little  as  I  had  yet  heard  of 
it,  had  something  curiously  still  and  mechanical 
in  its  tones,  and  the  utterance  was  remarkably 
rapid.  She  held  a  small  bag  in  her  hand :  and 
her  dress — bonnet,  sIuxavI,  and  goAvn  all  of  Avhite 
— Avas,  so  far  as  I  could  guess,  certainly  not 
composed  of  very  delicate  or  very  expensiA'c 
materials.  Her  figure  Avas  slight,  and  rather 
above  the  average  height — her  gait  and  actions 
free  from  the  slightest  approach  to  extrava- 
gance. This  was  all  that  I  could  obserA'e  of 
her,  in  the  dim  light  and  under  the  perplex- 
ingly-strango   circumstances   of  our   meeting. 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


11 


"  I  TURNED  ON  THK  INSTANT,  WITH  MY  FINGEKS  TIGHTENING  KOUND  THE  HANDLE    OF  MY  STICK." 


What  sort  of  woman  she  was,  and  how  she 
came  to  be  out  alone  in  the  high-road,  an  hour 
after  midnight,  I  altogetlier  failed  to  guess. 
The  one  thing  of  which  I  felt  certain  was,  that 
the  grossest  of  mankind  could  not  have  miscon- 
strued her  motive  in  speaking,  even  at  that  sus- 
piciously late  hour  and  in  that  suspiciously  lone- 
ly place. 

"Did  you  hear  me?"  she  said,  still  quietly 
and  rapidly,  and  without  the  least  fretfulness 
or  impatience.  "I  asked  if  that  was  the  way 
to  London." 

"  Yes,"  I  replied,  "  that  is  the  way:  it  leads 
to  St.  John's  Wood  and  the  Regent's  Park. 
You  must  excuse  my  not  answering  you  before. 
I  was  rather  startled  by  your  sudden  appear- 
ance in  the  road ;  and  I  am,  even  now,  quite 
unable  to  account  for  it." 

"You  don't  suspect  me  of  doing  any  thing 
wrong,  do  you  ?  I  have  done  nothing  wrong. 
I  have  met  with  an  accident — I  am  very  unfor- 
tunate in  being  here  alone  so  late.  Why  do 
you  suspoct  me  of  doing  wrong  ?" 

She  spoke  with  unnecessary  earnestness  and 
agitation,  and  shrank  back  from  me  several 
paces,     I  did  my  best  to  reassure  her. 


' '  Pray  don't  suppose  that  I  have  any  idea  of 
suspecting  you,"  I  said,  "or  any  other  wisli 
than  to  be  of  assistance  to  you,  if  I  can.  I 
only  w-ondered  at  your  appearance  in  the  road, 
because  it  seemed  to  me  to  be  empty  the  instant 
before  I  saw  you." 

She  turned,  and  pointed  back  to  a  place  at 
the  junction  of  the  road  to  London  and  the 
road  to  Hampstead,  where  there  was  a  gap  in 
the  hedge. 

"I  heard  you  coming,"  she  said,  "and  hid 
there  to  see  what  sort  of  man  you  were,  before 
I  risked  speaking.  I  doubted  and  feared  about 
it  till  you  passed ;  and  then  I  was  obliged  to 
steal  after  you,  and  touch  you." 

Steal  after  me,  and  touch  me?  Why  not  call 
to  me?     Strange,  to  say  the  least  of  it. 

"  May  I  trust  you  ?"  she  asked.  "  You  don't 
think  the  worse  of  me  because  I  have  met  with 
an  accident  ?"  She  stopped  in  confusion  ;  shift- 
ed her  bag  from  one  hand  to  the  other;  and 
sighed  bitterly. 

The  loneliness  and  helplessness  of  the  wo- 
man touched  me.  The  natural  impulse  to  as- 
sist her  and  to  spare  her,  got  the  better  of  the 
judgment,  the  caution,  the  worldly  tact,  which 


12 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


an  elder,  wiser,  and  colder  man  miglit  have  sum- 
moned to  help  him  in  this  strange  emergency. 

"  You  may  trust  me  for  any  harmless  pur- 
pose," I  said.  "If  it  troubles  you  to  explain 
your  strange  situation  to  me,  don't  think  of  re- 
turning to  the  subject  again.  I  have  no  right 
to  aslc  you  for  any  explanations.  Tell  me  how 
I  can  help  you;  and  if  I  can,  I  will." 

"  You  are  very  kind,  and  I  am  very,  very 
thankful  to  have  met  you."  The  first  touch  of 
womanly  tenderness  that  I  had  heard  from  her, 
trembled  in  lier  voice  as  she  said  the  words ; 
but  no  tears  glistened  in  those  large,  wistfully 
attentive  eyes  of  hers,  which  were  still  fixed  on 
me.  "  I  have  only  been  in  London  once  be- 
fore," she  went  on,  more  and  more  rapidly; 
"  and  I  know  nothing  about  that  side  of  it, 
yonder.  Can  I  get  a  fly,  or  a  carriage  of  any 
"kind?  Is  it  too  late?  I  don't  know.  If  you 
could  show  me  where  to  get  a  fl)' — and  if  you 
will  only  promise  not  to  interfere  with  me,  and 
to  let  me  leave  you,  when  and  how  I  please — I 
have  a  friend  in  London  who  will  be  glad  to  re- 
ceive me — I  want  nothing  else — will  you  prom- 
ise?" 

She  looked  anxiously  up  and  down  the  road ; 
shifted  her  bag  again  from  one  hand  to  the 
other;  repeated  the  words,  "Will  you  prom- 
ise ?"  and  looked  hard  in  my  face,  with  a  jjlead- 
ing  fear  and  confusion  that  it  troubled  me  to 
see. 

What  could  I  do?  Here  was  a  stranger  ut- 
terly and  helplessly  at  my  mercy  —  and  that 
stranger  a  forlorn  woman.  No  house  was  near; 
no  one  was  passing  whom  I  could  consult ;  and 
no  earthly  right  existed  on  my  part  to  give  me 
a  power  of  control  over  her,  even  if  I  had  known 
how  to  exei'cise  it.  I  trace  these  lines  self- 
distrustfully,  with  the  shadows  of  after-events 
darkening  the  very  paper  I  write  on ;  and  still 
I  say,  what  could  I  do  ? 

What  I  did  do,  was  to  try  and  gain  time  by 
questioning  her. 

"Are  you  sure  that  your  friend  in  London 
will  receive  you  at  such  a  late  hour  as  this?"  I 
said. 

"  Quite  sure.  Only  say  you  will  let  me  leave 
you  when  and  how  I  please — only  say  you  won't 
interfere  with  me.     Will  you  promise?" 

As  she  repeated  the  words  for  the  tliird  time, 
she  came  close  to  me,  and  laid  her  hand,  with 
a  sudden  gentle  stealthiness,  on  my  bosom — a 
thin  hand;  a  cold  hand  (when  I  removed  it 
with  mine)  even  on  that  sultry  night.  Remem- 
lier  that  I  was  young;  remember  that  the  hand 
which  touched  me  was  a  woman's. 

"Will  you  promise?" 

"Yes." 

One  word!  The  little  familiar  word  that  is 
on  every  body's  lips,  every  hour  in  the  day. 
Oh  me  !  and  I  tremble,  now,  when  I  write  it. 

We  set  our  faces  toward  London,  and  walked 
on  together  in  the  first  still  hour  of  the  new  day 
— I,  and  this  woman,  whose  name,  whose  char- 
acter, whose  story,  whose  objects  in  life,  whose 
very  presence  by  my  side,  at  that  moment,  were 
fathomless  mysteries  to  me.  It  was  like  a 
dream.  Was  I  Walter  Hartright  ?  Was  this 
the  well-known,  uneventful  road,  wjiere  holiday 
people  strolled  on  Sundays?  Had  I  really  left, 
little  more  than  an  hour  since,  the  quiet,  de- 
cent, conventionally-domestic  atmosphere  of  my 


mother's  cottage?  I  was  too  bewildered — too 
conscious  also  of  a  vague  sense  of  something 
like  self-reproach — to  speak  to  my  strange  com- 
panion for  some  minutes.  It  was  her  voice  again 
that  first  broke  the  silence  between  us. 

"  I  want  to  ask  you  something,"  slie  said,  sud- 
denly.   "Do  you  know  many  people  in  London?" 

"  Yes,  a  great  many." 

"Many  men  of  rank  and  title?"  There  was 
an  unmistakable  tone  of  suspicion  in  the  strange 
question.     I  hesitated  about  answering  it. 

"  Some,"  I  said,  after  a  moment's  silence. 

"  Many" — she  came  to  a  full  stop,  and  looked 
me  searchingly  in  the  face — "  many  men  of  the 
rank  of  Baronet  ?" 

Too  much  astonished  to  reply,  I  questioned 
her  in  my  turn. 

"Why  do  you  ask?" 

"  Because  I  hope,  for  my  own  sake,  ttere  is 
one  Baronet  that  you  don't  know." 

"Will  you  tell  me  his  name?" 

"I  can't — I  daren't — I  forget  myself,  when 
I  mention  it."  She  spoke  loudly  and  almost 
fiercely,  raised  her  clenched  hand  in  the  air, 
and  shook  it  passionately ;  then,  on  a  sudden, 
controlled  herself  again,  and  added,  in  tones 
lowered  to  a  whisper:  "Tell  me  which  of  them 
you  know." 

I  could  hardly  refuse  to  humor  her  in  such  a 
trifle,  and  I  mentioned  three  names.  Two,  the 
names  of  fathers  of  families  whose  daughters 
I  taught ;  one,  the  name  of  a  bachelor  who  had 
once  taken  me  a  cruise  in  his  yacht,  to  make 
sketches  for  him. 

"Ah!  you  don't  know  him,"  she  said,  with  a 
sigh  of  relief.  "Are  you  a  man  of  rank  and 
title  yourself?" 

"Far  from  it.    I  am  only  a  drawing-master." 

As  the  reply  passed  my  lips — a  little  bitterly, 
perhaps — she  took  my  arm  with  the  abruptness 
which  cliaracterized  all  her  actions. 

"Not  a  man  of  rank  and  title,"  she  repeated 
to  herself.      "  Thank  God  !  I  may  trust  him." 

I  had  hitherto  contrived  to  master  my  curios- 
ity out  of  consideration  for  my  companion  ;  but 
it  got  the  better  of  me  now. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  have  serious  reason  to  com- 
plain of  some  man  of  rank  and  title?"  I  said. 
"I  am  afraid  the  baronet,  M'hose  name  you  arc 
unwilling  to  mention  to  me,  has  done  you  some 
grievous  wrong  ?  Is  he  the  cause  of  your  being 
out  here  at  this  strange  time  of  night  ?" 

"Don't  ask  me;  don't  make  me  talk  of  it," 
she  answered.  "I'm  not  fit,  now.  I  have  been 
cruelly  used  and  cruelly  wronged.  You  will  be 
kinder  than  ever,  if  you  will  walk  on  fast,  and 
not  speak  to  me.  I  sadly  want  to  be  silent — I 
sadly  want  to  quiet  myself,  if  I  can." 

We  moved  forward  again  at  a  quick  pace ; 
and  for  half  an  hour,  at  least,  not  a  word  pass- 
ed on  either  side.  From  time  to  time,  being 
forbidden  to  make  any  more  inquiries,  I  stole  a 
look  at  her  face.  It  was  always  the  same ;  the 
lips  close  shut,  the  brow  frowning,  the  eyes  look- 
ing straight  forward,  eagerly  and  yet  absently. 
We  had  reached  the  first  houses,  and  were  close 
on  tiie  new  Wesleyan  College,  before  her  set 
features  relaxed,  and  she  spoke  once  more. 

"Do  you  live  in  London?"  she  said. 

"Yes."  As  I  answered,  it  struck  mc  that 
she  might  have  formed  some  intention  of  aji- 
pcaling  to  mc  for  assistance  or  advice,  and  that 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


13 


I  ought  to  spare  lier  a  possible  disappointment 
by  warning  her  of  my  a))proaching  absence  from 
home.  So  I  added  :  "But  to-morrow  I  shall  be 
away  from  London  for  some  time.  I  am  going 
into  the  country." 

"  Where  ?"  she  asked.     "  North  or  south  ?" 
"North— to  Cumberland." 
"Cumberland!"  she  repeated  the  word  ten- 
derly.   "  Ah !  I  wish  I  was  going  there  too.    I 
was  once  happy  in  Cumberland." 

I  tried  again  to  lift  the  vail  that  hung  be- 
tween this  woman  and  me. 

"Perhaps  you  were  born,"  I  said,  "in  the 
beautiful  Lake  country." 

"  No,"  she  answered.  "  I  was  born  in  Hamp- 
shire ;  but  I  once  went  to  school  for  a  little 
while  in  Cumberland.  Lakes?  I  don't  remem- 
ber any  lakes.  It's  Limmeridge  village,  and 
Limmeridge  House,  I  should  like  to  see  again." 
It  was  my  turn,  now,  to  stop  suddenly.  In 
the  excited  state  of  my  curiosity,  at  that  mo- 
ment, the  chance  reference  to  Mr.  Fairlie's  place 
of  residence,  on  the  lips  of  my  strange  compan- 
ion, staggered  me  with  astonishment. 

"  Did  you  hear  any  body  calling  after  us  ?"  she 
asked,  looking  up  and  down  the  road  afFrighted- 
ly,  the  instant  I  stopped. 

"  No,  no.  I  was  only  struck  by  the  name  of 
Limmeridge  House — I  heard  it  mentioned  by 
some  Cumberland  people  a  few  days  since." 

"Ah!  not  my  people.  JNIrs.  Fairlie  is  dead; 
and  her  husband  is  dead ;  and  their  little  girl 
may  be  married  and  gone  away  by  this  time.  I 
can't  say  who  lives  at  Limmeridge  now.  If  any 
more  are  left  there  of  that  name,  I  only  know  I 
love  them  for  Mrs.  Fairlie's  sake." 

She  seemed  about  to  say  more ;  but  M'hile  she 
was  speaking,  we  came  within  view  of  the  turn- 
pike, at  the  top  of  the  Avenue  Road.  Her  hand 
tightened  round  my  arm,  and  she  looked  anx- 
iously at  the  gate  before  us. 

"is  the  turnpike  man  looking  out?"  she 
asked. 

He  was  not  looking  out ;  no  one  else  was  near 
the  place  when  we  passed  through  the  gate. 
The  sight  of  the  gas-lamps  and  houses  seemed 
to  agitate  her,  and  to  make  her  impatient. 

"  This  is  London,"  she  said.  "  Do  you  see 
any  carriage  I  can  get  ?  I  am  tired  and  fright- 
ened. I  want  to  shut  myself  in,  and  be  driven 
away." 

I  explained  to  her  that  we  must  walk  a  little 
further  to  get  to  a  cab-stand,  unless  we  were 
fortunate  enough  to  meet  with  an  empty  vehicle ; 
and  then  tried  to  resume  the  subject  of  Cum- 
berland. It  was  useless.  That  idea  of  shut- 
ting herself  in,  and  being  driven  away,  had  now 
got  full  possession  of  her  mind.  She  could 
think  and  talk  of  nothing  else. 

We  had  hardly  proceeded  a  third  of  the  way 
down  the  Avenue  Road,  when  I  saw  a  cab  draw 
up  at  a  house  a  few  doors  below  us,  on  the  op- 
posite side  of  the  way.  A  gentleman  got  out 
iind  let  himself  in  at  the  garden  door.  I  hailed 
the  cab,  as  the  driver  got  on  the  box  again. 
When  we  ci-ossed  the  road,  my  companion's  im- 
patience increased  to  such  an  extent  that  she 
almost  forced  me  to  run. 

"It's  so  late,"  she  said.  "I  am  only  in  a 
hurry  because  it's  so  late." 

"I  can't  take  you,  Sir,  if  you're  not  going 
toward  Tottenham  court-road,"  said  the  driver, 


civilly,  when  I  opened  the  cab  door.  "My 
horse  is  dead  beat,  and  I  can't  get  him  no  fur- 
ther than  the  stable." 

"  Yes,  yes.  That  will  do  for  me.  I'm  going 
that  way — I'm  going  that  way."  She  spoke 
with  breathless  eagerness,  and  pressed  by  me 
into  the  cab. 

I  had  assured  myself  that  the  man  was  sober 
as  well  as  civil,  before  I  let  her  enter  the  vehicle. 
And  now,  when  she  was  seated  inside,  I  entreat- 
ed her  to  let  me  see  her  set  down  safely  at  her 
destination. 

"No,  no,  no,"  she  said,  vehemently.  "I'm 
quite  safe  and  quite  happy  now.  If  you  are  a 
gentleman,  remember  your  promise.  Let  him 
drive  on,  till  I  stop  him.  Thank  you — oh  !  thank 
you,  thank  you !" 

My  hand  was  on  the  cab  door.  She  caught 
it  in  hers,  kissed  it,  and  pushed  it  away.  The 
cab  drove  off  at  the  same  moment — I  started 
into  the  road,  with  some  vague  idea  of  stopping 
it  again,  I  hardly  knew  why — hesitated  from 
dread  of  frightening  and  distressing  her — called, 
at  last,  but  not  loudly  enough  to  attract  the 
driver's  attention.  The  sound  of  the  wheels 
grew  fainter  in  the  distance — the  cab  melted 
into  the  black  shadows  on  the  I'oad — the  woman 
in  white  was  gone. 

Ten  minutes,  or  more,  had  passed.  I  was 
still  on  the  same  side  of  tlae  way ;  now  mechan- 
ically walking  forward  a  few  paces ;  now  stop- 
ping again  absently.  At  one  moment,  I  found 
myself  doubting  the  reality  of  my  own  adven- 
ture ;  at  another,  I  was  perplexed  and  distressed 
by  an  uneasy  sense  of  having  done  wrong,  which 
yet  left  me  confusedly  ignorant  of  how  I  could 
have  done  right.  I  hardly  knew  where  I  was 
going,  or  what  I  meant  to  do  next ;  I  was  con- 
scious of  nothing  but  the  confusion  of  my  own 
thoughts,  when  I  was  abruptly  recalled  to  my- 
self—  awakened  I  might  almost  say  —  by  the 
sound  of  rapidly  approaching  wheels  close  be- 
hind me. 

I  was  on  the  dark  side  of  the  road,  in  the 
thick  shadow  of  some  garden  trees,  when  1 
stopped  to  look  round.  On  the  opposite  and 
lighter  side  of  the  way,  a  short  distance  below 
me,  a  policeman  was  strolling  along  in  the  di- 
rection of  the  Regent's  Park. 

The  carriage  passed  me  —  an  open  chaise 
driven  by  two  men. 

"  Stop  !"  cried  one.  "  There's  a  policeman. 
Let's  ask  him." 

The  horse  was  instantly  pulled  up,  a  few  yards 
beyond  the  dark  place  where  I  stood. 

"  Policeman !"  cried  the  first  speaker.  "  Have 
you  seen  a  woman  pass  this  way?" 

"What  sort  of  woman,  Sir?" 

"A  woman  in  a  lavender-colored  gown — " 

"  No,  no,"  interposed  the  second  man.  "  The 
clothes  we  gave  her  were  found  on  her  bed.  She 
must  have  gone  away  in  the  clothes  she  wore 
when  she  came  to  us.  In  white,  policeman.  A 
woman  in  white." 

"  I  haven't  seen  her.  Sir." 

"  If  you,  or  any  of  your  men  meet  with  the 
woman,  stop  her,  and  send  her  in  careful  keep- 
ing to  that  address.  I'll  pay  all  expenses,  and 
a  fair  reward  into  the  bargain." 

The  policeman  looked  at  the  card  that  was 
handed  down  to  him. 


14 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


"Why  are  we  to  stop  her,  Sir?  What  has 
she  done?" 

"  Done !  She  has  escaped  from  my  Asylum. 
Don't  forget :  a  woman  in  white.    Drive  on. " 

TV. 

"  She  has  escaped  from  my  asylum." 

I  can  not  say  with  truth  that  the  terrible  in- 
ference which  those  words  suggested  flashed 
upon  me  like  a  new  revelation.  Some  of  the 
strange  questions  put  to  me  by  the  woman  in 
white,  after  my  ill-considered  promise  to  leave 
her  free  to  act  as  she  pleased,  had  suggested 
the  conclusion,  either  that  she  was  naturally 
flighty  and  unsettled,  or  that  some  recent  shock 
of  teri'or  had  disturbed  the  balance  of  her  fac- 
ulties. But  the  idea  of  absolute  insanity  which 
M-e  all  associate  with  the  very  name  of  an  Asy- 
lum, had,  I  can  honestly  declare,  never  oc- 
curred to  me,  in  connection  with  her.  I  had 
seen  nothing,  in  her  language  or  her  actions,  to 
justify  it  at  the  time ;  and,  even  with  the  new 
light  thrown  on  her  by  the  words  which  the 
stranger  had  addressed  to  the  policeman,  I 
could  see  nothing  to  justify  it  now. 

What  had  I  done  ?  Assisted  the  victim  of 
the  most  hon-ible  of  all  false  imprisonments  to 
escape  ;  or  cast  loose  on  the  wide  world  of 
London  an  unfortunate  creature  whose  actions 
it  was  my  duty,  and  every  man's  duty,  merci- 
fully to  control?  I  turned  sick  at  heart  when 
the  question  occurred  to  me,  and  when  I  felt 
self-reproachfully  that  it  was  asked  too  late. 

In  the  disturbed  state  of  my  mind,  it  was 
useless  to  think  of  going  to  bed,  when  I  at  last 
got  back  to  my  chambers  in  Clement's  Inn. 
Before  many  hours  elapsed  it  would  be  neces- 
saiy  to  start  on  my  journey  to  Cumberland.  I 
sat  down  and  tried,  first  to  sketch,  then  to  read 
— but  the  woman  in  white  got  between  me  and 
my  pencil,  between  me  and  my  book.  Had  the 
forloi'n  creature  come  to  any  harm  ?  That  was 
my  fii'st  thought,  though  I  shrank  selfishly  from 
confronting  it.  Other  thoughts  followed,  on 
which  it  was  less  harrowing  to  dwell.  Where 
had  she  stopped  the  cab  ?  What  had  become 
of  her  now?  Had  she  been  traced  and  cap- 
tured by  the  men  in  the  chaise  ?  Or  was  she 
still  capable  of  controlling  her  own  actions ; 
and  were  we  two  following  our  widely-parted 
roads  toward  one  point  in  the  mysterious  future, 
at  which  we  were  to  meet  once  more  ? 

It  was  a  relief  when  the  hour  came  to  lock 
my  door,  to  bid  farewell  to  London  pursuits, 
London  pupils,  and  London  friends,  and  to  be 
in  movement  again  toward  new  interests  and  a 
new  life.  Even  the  bustle  and  confusion  at  the 
railway  terminus,  so  wearisome  and  bewilder- 
ing at  other  times,  roused  me  and  did  me  good. 

My  traveling  instructions  directed  me  to  go 
to  Carlisle,  and  tlien  to  diverge  by  a  branch 
railway  which  ran  in  the  direction  of  the  coast. 
As  a  misfortune  to  begin  with,  our  engine  broke 
down  between  Lancaster  and  Carlisle.  The 
delay  occasioned  by  this  accident  caused  me  to 
be  too  late  for  the  branch  train,  by  which  I  was 
to  have  gone  on  immediately.  I  had  to  wait 
some  hours  ;  and  when  a  later  tr.ain  finally  de- 
])Osited  me  at  the  nearest  station  to  Limmcridge 
House,  it  was  past  ten,  and  the  night  was  so 
dark  that  I  could  hardly  sec  my  way  to  the 


pony-chaise  which  Mr.  Fairlie  had  ordered  to 
be  in  waiting  for  me. 

The  driver  was  evidently  discomposed  by  the 
lateness  of  my  arrival.  He  was  in  that  state 
of  highly-respectful  sulkiness  which  is  peculiar 
to  English  servants.  We  drove  away  slowly 
through  the  darkness  in  perfect  silence.  The 
roads  were  bad,  and  tlie  dense  obscurity  of  the 
night  increased  the  difiBculty  of  getting  over  the 
ground  quickly.  It  was,  by  my  watch,  nearly 
an  hour  and  a  half  from  the  time  of  our  leaving 
the  station  before  I  heard  the  sound  of  the  sea 
in  the  distance,  and  the  crunch  of  our  wheels 
on  a  smooth  gravel  drive.  We  had  passed  one 
gate  before  entering  the  drive,  and  we  passed 
another  before  we  drew  up  at  the  house.  I 
was  received  by  a  solemn  man-servant  out  of 
livery,  was  informed  that  the  family  had  re- 
tired for  the  night,  and  was  then  led  into  a 
large  and  lofty  room  where  my  supper  was 
awaiting  me,  in  a  forlorn  manner,  at  one  ex- 
tremity of  a  lonesome  mahogany  wilderness  of 
dining-table. 

I  was  too  tired  and  out  of  spii'its  to  eat  or 
drink  much,  esjiecially  with  the  solemn  sen'ant 
waiting  on  me  as  elaborately  as  if  a  small  din- 
ner-party had  arrived  at  the  house  instead  of  a 
solitary  man.  In  a  quarter  of  an  hour  I  was 
ready  to  be  taken  up  to  my  bedchamber.  The 
solemn  servant  conducted  me  into  a  prettily-fur- 
nished room — said,  "Breakfast  at  nine  o'clock, 
Sir" — looked  all  round  him  to  see  that  every 
thing  was  in  its  proper  place — and  noiselessly 
withdrew. 

"What  shall  I  see  in  my  dreams  to-night?" 
I  thought  to  myself,  as  I  put  out  the  candle ; 
"  the  woman  in  white,  or  the  unknown  inhab- 
itants of  this  Cumberland  mansion?"  It  was  a 
strange  sensation  to  be  sleeping  in  the  house, 
like  a  friend  of  the  family,  and  yet  not  to  know 
one  of  the  inmates,  even  by  sight. 

V. 

When  I  rose  the  next  morning  and  drew  up 
my  blind,  the  sea  opened  before  me  joyously 
under  the  broad  August  sunlight,  and  the  dis- 
tant coast  of  Scotland  fringed  the  horizon  with 
its  lines  of  melting  blue. 

The  view  was  such  a  surprise,  and  such  a 
change  to  me,  after  my  weary  London  expe- 
rience of  brick  and  mortar  landscape,  that  I 
seemed  to  burst  into  a  new  life  and  a  new  set 
of  thoughts  the  moment  I  looked  at  it.  A  con- 
fused sensation  of  having  suddenly  lost  my  fa- 
miliarity with  the  past,  without  acquiring  any 
additional  clearness  of  idea  in  reference  to  the 
present  or  the  future,  took  possession  of  my 
mind.  Circumstances  that  were  but  a  few  days 
old  faded  back  in  my  memory  as  if  they  had 
happened  months  and  months  since.  Pesca's 
quaint  announcement  of  tlie  means  by  which  he 
had  procured  me  my  present  employment ;  the 
farewell  evening  I  had  passed  witli  my  mother 
and  sister;  even  my  mysterious  adventure  on 
the  way  home  from  Ilampstead,  had  all  become 
like  events  which  might  liave  occurred  at  some 
former  epoch  of  my  existence.  Altliough  the 
woman  in  white  was  still  in  my  mind,  the  image 
of  her  seemed  to  have  grown  dull  and  faint 
already. 

A  little  before  nine  o'clock,  I  descended  to 
the   ground-floor  of  the  house.     The  solemn 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


15 


man-servaut  of  the  night  before  met  me  wan- 
dering among  the  passages,  and  compassionate- 
ly showed  me  the  way  to  the  breakfast-room. 

My  first  glance  round  me,  as  the  man  opened 
the  door,  disclosed  a  well-furnished  breakfast- 
table,  standing  in  the  middle  of  a  long  room, 
with  many  windows  in  it.  I  looked  from  the 
table  to  the  window  farthest  from  me,  and  saw 
a  lady  standing  at  it,  with  her  back  turned  to- 
ward me.  The  instant  my  eyes  rested  on  her, 
I  was  struck  by  the  rare  beauty  of  her  form, 
and  by  the  unaffected  grace  of  her  attitude. 
Her  figure  was  tall,  yet  not  too  tall;  comely 
and  well-developed,  yet  not  fat ;  her  head  set  on 
her  shoulders  with  an  easy,  pliant  firmness ;  her 
waist,  perfection  in  the  eyes  of  a  man,  for  it  oc- 
cupied its  natural  place,  it  filled  out  its  natural 
circle,  it  was  visil)ly  and  delightfully  undeformed 
by  stays.  She  had  not  heard  my  entrance  into 
the  room ;  and  I  allowed  myself  the  luxury  of 
admiring  her  for  a  few  moments,  before  I  moved 
one  of  the  chairs  near  me,  as  the  least  embar- 
rassing means  of  attracting  her  attention.  She 
turned  toward  me  immediately.  The  easy  ele- 
gance of  every  movement  of  her  limbs  and  body 
as  soon  as  she  began  to  advance  from  the  far  end 
of  the  room,  set  me  in  a  flutter  of  expectation 
to  see  her  face  clearly.  She  left  the  window — 
and  I  said  to  myself.  The  lady  is  dark.  She 
moved  forward  a  few  steps — and  I  said  to  my- 
self. The  lady  is  young.  She  approached  near- 
er— and  I  said  to  myself  (with  a  sense  of  sur- 
prise which  words  fail  me  to  express),  The  lady 
is  ugly ! 

Never  was  the  old  conventional  maxim,  that 
Nature  can  not  err,  more  flatly  contradicted — 
never  was  the  fair  promise  of  a  lovely  figure 


more  strangely  and  startlingly  belied  by  the 
face  and  head  that  crowned  it.  The  lady's 
complexion  was  almost  swarthy,  and  the  dark 
down  on  her  upper  lip  was  almost  a  mustache. 
She  had  a  large,  firm,  masculine  mouth  and 
jaw ;  prominent,  piercing,  resolute  brown  eyes ; 
and  thick,  coal-black  hair,  growing  unusualh' 
low  down  on  her  forehead.  Her  expi-ession — 
bright,  frank,  and  intelligent — appeared,  while 
she  was  silent,  to  be  altogether  wanting  in  those 
feminine  attractions  of  gentleness  and  pliabil- 
itjr,  without  which  the  beauty  of  the  handsomest 
woman  alive  is  beauty  incomplete.  To  see  such 
a  face  as  this  set  on  shoulders  that  a  sculptor 
would  have  longed  to  model — to  be  charmed  by 
the  modest  graces  of  action  through  which  the 
symmetrical  limbs  betrayed  their  beauty  when 
they  moved,  and  then  to  be  almost  repelled  by 
the  masculine  form  and  masculine  look  of  the 
features  in  which  the  perfectly-shaped  figure 
ended — was  to  feel  a  sensation  oddly  akin  to 
the  helpless  discomfort  familiar  to  us  all  in  sleep, 
when  we  recognize  yet  can  not  reconcile  the 
anomalies  and  contradictions  of  a  dream. 

"Mr.  Hartright?"  said  the  lady,  interroga- 
tively ;  her  dark  face  lighting  up  with  a  smile, 
and  softening  and  growing  womanly  the  mo- 
ment she  began  to  speak.  "We  resigned  all 
hope  of  you  last  night,  and  went  to  bed  as 
usual.  Accept  my  apologies  for  our  apparent 
want  of  attention ;  and  allow  me  to  introduce 
myself  as  one  of  your  pupils.  Shall  we  shake 
hands  ?  I  suppose  we  must  come  to  it  sooner 
or  later — and  why  not  sooner  ?" 

These  odd  words  of  welcome  were  spoken  in 
a  clear,  ringing,  pleasant  voice.  The  offered 
hand — rather  large,  but  beautifully  formed — 
was  given  to  me  with  the  easy,  unaffected  self- 
reliance  of  a  highly-bred  woman.  We  sat  down 
together  at  tlie  breakfast-table  in  as  cordial 
and  customary  a  manner  as  if  we  had  known 
each  other  for  years,  and  had  met  at  Limmer- 
idge  House  to  talk  over  old  times  by  previous 
appointment. 

"I  hope  yon  come  here  good-humoredly  de- 
termined to  make  the  best  of  your  position," 
continued  the  lady.  "You  will  have  to  begin 
this  morning  by  putting  up  with  no  other  com- 
pany at  bi-eakfast  than  mine.  My  sister  is  in 
her  own  room,  nursing  that  essentially  feminine 
malady,  a  slight  headache ;  and  her  old  govern- 
ess, Mi-s.  Vesey,  is  charitably  attending  on  her 
with  restorative  tea.  My  uncle,  Mr.  Fairlie, 
never  joins  us  at  any  of  our  meals  :  he  is  an  in- 
valid, and  keeps  bachelor  state  in  his  own  apart- 
ments. There  is  nobody  else  in  the  house  but 
me.  Two  young  ladies  have  been  staying  here, 
but  they  went  away  yesterday  in  despair ;  and 
no  wonder.  All  through  their  visit  (in  conse- 
quence of  Mr.  Fairlie's  invalid  condition)  we 
produced  no  such  convenience  in  the  house  as 
a  flirtable,  danceable,  small-talkable  creature 
of  tlie  male  sex ;  and  the  consequence  was,  we 
did  nothing  but  quarrel,  especially  at  dinner- 
time. How  can  you  expect  four  women  to  dine 
together  alone  every  day,  and  not  quarrel  ?  We 
are  such  fools,  we  can't  entertain  each  other  at 
table.  You  see  I  don't  think  much  of  my  own 
sex,  Mr.  Hartright — which  will  you  have,  tea 
or  coffee  ? — no  woman  does  think  much  of  her 
own  sex,  although  few  of  them  confess  it  as 
freely  as  I  do.     Dear  me,  you  look  puzzled. 


16 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


Why  ?  Are  you  wondering  what  you  will  have 
for  breakfast?  or  are  you  surprised  at  my  care- 
less Avay  of  talking  ?  In  the  first  case,  I  advise 
you,  as  a  friend,  to  have  nothing  to  do  with 
that  cold  ham  at  your  elbow,  and  to  wait  till  the 
omelette  comes  in.  In  the  second  case,  I  will 
give  you  some  tea  to  compose  your  spirits,  and 
do  all  a  woman  can  (which  is  very  little,  by-the- 
by)  to  hold  my  tongue." 

She  handed  me  my  cnp  of  tea,  laughing  gay- 
ly.  Her  light  flow  of  talk,  and  her  lively  famil- 
iarity of  manner  with  a  total  stranger,  were  ac- 
companied by  an  unaffected  naturalness  and  an 
easy  inborn  confidence  in  herself  and  her  posi- 
tion, which  would  have  secured  her  the  respect 
of  the  most  audacious  man  breathing.  While 
it  was  impossible  to  be  formal  and  reserved  in 
her  company,  it  was  more  than  impossible  to 
take  the  faintest  vestige  of  a  liberty  with  her, 
even  in  thought.  I  felt  this  instinctively,  even 
while  I  caught  the  infection  of  her  own  bright 
gayety  of  spirits — even  while  I  did  my  best  to 
answer  her  in  her  own  frank,  lively  way. 

"Yes,  yes,"  she  said,  when  I  had  suggested 
the  only  explanation  I  could  offer,  to  account 
for  my  perplexed  looks,  "I  understand.  You 
are  such  a  perfect  stranger  in  the  house,  that 
you  are  puzzled  by  my  familiar  references  to  the 
worthy  inhabitants.  Natui-al  enough  :  I  ought 
to  have  thought  of  it  before.  At  any  rate,  I 
can  set  it  right  now.  Suppose  I  begin  with 
myself,  so  as  to  get  done  with  that  part  of  the 
subject  as  soon  as  possible  ?  My  name  is  Ma- 
rian Halcombe ;  and  I  am  as  inaccurate  as 
women  iisually  are  in  calling  Mr.  Fairlie  my 
uncle,  and  Miss  Fairlie  my  sister.  My  mother 
was  twice  married :  the  first  time  to  Mr.  Hal- 
combe, my  father;  the  second  time  to  Mr. 
Fairlie,  my  half-sister's  father.  Except  that  we 
are  both  orphans,  we  are  in  every  respect  as  un- 
like each  other  as  possible.  My  father  was  a 
poor  man,  and  Miss  Fairlie's  father  was  a  rich 
man.  I  have  got  nothing,  and  she  is  an  heir- 
ess. I  am  dark  and  ugly,  and  she  is  fair  and 
pretty.  Every  body  thinks  me  crabbed  and  odd 
(with  perfect  justice) ;  and  everybody  thinks  her 
.sweet-tempered  and  charming  (_with  more  justice 
still).  In  short,  she  is  an  angel ;  and  I  am — 
Try  some  of  that  marmalade,  Mr.  Hartright,  and 
finish  the  sentence,  in  the  name  of  female  pro- 
priety, for  yourself.  What  am  I  to  tell  you  about 
Mr.  Fairlie  ?  Upon  my  honor,  I  hardly  know. 
He  is  sure  to  send  for  you  after  breakfast,  and 
you  can  study  him  for  yourself.  In  the  mean 
time,  I  may  inform  you,  first,  tl;at  he  is  the  late 
Mr.  Fairlie's  younger  brother  ;  secondly,  that  he 
is  a  single  man ;  and,  thirdly,  that  he  is  Miss 
Fairlie's  guardian.  I  won't  live  without  her,  and 
she  can't  live  without  me ;  and  that  is  how  I 
come  to  be  at  Limmeridge  House.  My  sister 
and  I  are  honestly  fond  of  each  other;  which, 
you  will  say,  is  perfectly  unaccountable,  under 
the  circumstances,  and  I  quite  agree  with  you — 
but  so  it  is.  You  must  please  both  of  us,  Mr. 
Hartright,  or  please  neither  of  us  ;  and,  what  is 
still  more  trying,  you  will  be  thrown  entirely 
upon  our  society.  Mrs.  Vesey  is  an  excellent 
person,  who  possesses  all  the  cardinal  virtues,  and 
counts  for  nothing ;  and  Mr.  Fairlie  is  too  great 
an  invalid  to  be  a  comiianion  for  any  body.  I 
don't  know  wjiat  is  the  matter  with  him,  and  the 
doctors  don't  know  what  is  the  matter  with  him, 


and  he  doesn't  know  himself  what  is  the  matter 
with  him.  We  all  say  it's  on  the  nerves,  and 
we  none  of  us  know  what  we  mean  when  we 
say  it.  However,  I  advise  you  to  humor  his 
little  peculiarities  when  you  see  him  to-day. 
Admire  his  collection  of  coins,  prints,  and  wa- 
ter-color drawings,  and  you  will  win  his  heart. 
Upon  my  word,  if  you  can  be  contented  -with  a 
quiet  country  life,  I  don't  see  why  you  should 
not  get  on  very  well  here.  From  breakfast  to 
lunch,  Mr.  Fairlie's  drawings  will  occupy  you. 
After  lunch.  Miss  Fairlie  and  I  shoulder  our 
sketch-books,  and  go  out  to  misrepresent  na- 
ture, under  your  directions.  Drawing  is  her  fa- 
vorite whim,  mind,  not  mine.  Women  can't 
draw — their  minds  are  too  flighty,  and  their  eye.s 
are  too  inattentive.  No  matter — my  sister  likes 
it ;  so  I  waste  paint  and  spoil  paper,  for  her  sake, 
as  composedly  as  any  woman  in  England.  As 
for  the  evenings,  I  think  we  can  help  j'ou  through 
them.  Miss  Fairlie  plays  delightfully.  For  my 
own  poor  part,  I  don't  know  one  note  of  music 
from  the  other;  but  I  can  match  you  at  chess, 
backgammon,  ecarte,  and  (with  the  inevitable 
female  drawbacks),  even  at  billiards  as  M'ell. 
What  do  you  think  of  the  programme?  Can 
you  reconcile  yourself  to  our  quiet,  regular  life  ? 
or  do  you  mean  to  be  restless,  and  secretly  thirst 
for  change  and  adventure,  in  the  humdrum  at- 
mosphere of  Limmeridge  House?" 

She  had  run  on  thus  far,  in  her  gracefully 
bantering  way,  with  no  other  interruptions  on 
my  part  than  the  unimportant  replies  which  po- 
liteness required  of  me.  The  turn  of  the  ex- 
pression, however,  in  her  last  question,  or  rather 
the  one  chance  word,  "  adventure,"  lightly  as  it 
fell  from  her  lips,  recalled  my  thoughts  to  my 
meeting  with  the  woman  in  white,  and  urged 
me  to  discover  the  connection  which  the  stran- 
ger's own  reference  to  Mrs.  Fairlie  informed 
me  must  once  have  existed  between  the  name- 
less fugitive  from  the  Asylum,  and  the  former 
mistress  of  Limmeridge  House. 

"Even  if  I  were  the  most  restless  of  man- 
kind," I  said,  "I  should  be  in  no  danger  of 
thirsting  after  adventures  for  some  time  to  come. 
The  very  night  before  I  arrived  at  this  house,  I 
met  Mith  an  adventure;  and  the  wonder  and 
excitement  of  it,  I  can  assure  you,  INIiss  Hal- 
combe, will  last  me  for  the  whole  term  of  my  stay 
in  Cumberland,  if  not  for  a  much  longer  period." 

"You  don't  say  so,  Mr.  Hartright!  May  I 
hear  it  ?" 

"You  have  a  claim  to  hear  it.  The  chief 
person  in  the  adventure  was  a  total  stranger  to 
me,  and  may  perhaps  be  a  total  stranger  to  3'ou ; 
but  she  certainly  mentioned  the  name  of  the 
late  Mrs.  Fairlie  in  terms  of  the  sincerest  grati- 
tude and  regard." 

"Mentioned  my  mother's  name!  You  in- 
terest me  indescribably.     Pray  go  on." 

I  at  once  related  the  circumstances  under 
which  I  had  met  the  woman  in  white,  exactly 
as  they  had  occurred  ;  and  I  repeated  what  she 
had  said  to  me  about  Mrs.  Fairlie  and  Limmer- 
idge House,  Avord  for  word. 

Miss  Halcombe's  bright  resolute  eyes  looked 
eagerly  into  mine,  from  the  beginning  of  the 
narrative  to  the  end.  Her  face  expressed  vivid 
interest  and  astonishment,  but  nothing  more. 
She  was  evidently  as  far  from  knowing  of  any 
clew  to  the  mystery  as  1  was  myself 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


17 


"Are  you  quite  sure  of  those  words  referring 
to  my  mother  ■"'  she  asked. 

"  Quite  sure,"  I  replied.  "  Wlioever  she  may 
be,  the  woman  was  once  at  school  in  the  village 
of  Limmeridge,  was  treated  with  especial  kind- 
ness by  Mrs.  Fairlie,  and,  in  grateful  remem- 
brance of  that  kindness,  feels  an  affectionate 
interest  in  all  surviving  members  of  the  family. 
She  knew  that  Mrs.  Fairlie  and  her  husband 
were  both  dead ;  and  she  spoke  of  Miss  Fairlie 
as  if  they  had  known  each  other  when  they  were 
children." 

"  You  said,  I  think,  that  she  denied  belong- 
ing to  this  place?" 

"Yes,  she  told  me  she  came  from  Hamp- 
shire." 

"And  you  entirely  failed  to  find  out  her 
name?" 

"Entirely." 

"  Very  strange.  I  tliink  you  were  quite  just- 
ified, Ml-.  Hartright,  in  giving  the  poor  creature 
her  liberty,  for  she  seems  to  have  done  notliing 
in  your  presence  to  show  herself  unfit  to  enjoy 
it.  But  I  wish  you  had  been  a  little  more  res- 
olute about  finding  out  her  name.  We  must 
really  clear  up  this  mystery  in  some  way.  You 
had  better  not  speak  of  it  yet  to  Mr.  Fairlie,  or 
to  my  sister.  They  are  both  of  them,  I  am  cer- 
tain, quite  as  ignorant  of  who  the  woman  is, 
and  of  what  her  past  history  in  connection  with 
us  can  be,  as  I  am  myself.  But  they  are  also, 
iu  widely  different  ways,  rather  nervous  and 
sensitive ;  and  you  would  only  fidget  one  and 
alarm  the  other  to  no  purpose.  As  for  myself, 
I  am  all  aflame  with  curiosity,  and  I  devote  my 
whole  energies  to  the  business  of  discovery  from 
this  moment.  When  my  mother  came  here, 
after  her  second  marriage,  she  certainly  estab- 
lished the  village  school  just  as  it  exists  at  the 
pi'esent  time.  But  the  old  teachers  are  all 
dead,  or  gone  elsewhere  ;  and  no  enlightenment 
is  to  be  hoped  for  from  that  quarter.  The  only 
other  alternative  I  can  think  of — " 

At  this  point  we  were  interrupted  by  the  en- 
trance of  the  servant,  with  a  message  from  Mr. 
Fairlie,  intimating  that  he  would  be  glad  to  see 
me,  as  soon  as  I  had  done  breakfast. 

"Wait  in  the  hall,"  said  Miss  Halcombe, 
answering  the  servant  for  me,  in  her  quick, 
ready  way.  "Mr.  Hartright  will  come  out  di- 
rectly. I  was  about  to  say,"  she  went  on,  ad- 
dressing me  again,  "that  my  sister  and  1  have 
a  large  collection  of  my  mother's  letters,  ad- 
dressed to  my  father  and  to  hers.  In  the  ab- 
sence of  any  other  means  of  getting  informa- 
tion, I  will  pass  the  morning  in  looking  over  my 
mother's  coiTCspondence  with  Mr.  Fairlie.  He 
was  fond  of  London,  and  was  constantly  away 
from  his  country  home  ;  and  she  was  accustom- 
ed, at  such  times,  to  write  and  report  to  him 
how  things  went  on  at  Limmeridge.  Her  letters 
are  full  of  references  to  the  school  in  which  she 
took  so  strong  an  interest ;  and  I  think  it  more 
than  likely  that  I  may  have  discovered  some- 
thing when  we  meet  again.  The  luncheon  hour 
is  two,  Mr.  Hartright.  I  shall  have  the  pleas- 
ure of  introducing  you  to  my  sister  by  that  time, 
and  we  will  occupy  the  afternoon  in  driving 
round  the  neighborhood  and  showing  you  all 
our  pet  points  of  view.  Till  two  o'clock,  then, 
fiirewell." 

She  nodded  to  me  with  the  lively  grace,  the 
B 


delightful  refinement  of  familiarity,  which  char- 
acterized all  that  she  did  and  all  that  she  said ; 
and  disappeared  by  a  door  at  the  lower  end  of 
the  room.  As  soon  as  she  had  left  me,  I  turned 
my  steps  toward  the  hall,  and  followed  the  serv- 
ant on  my  way,  for  the  first  time,  to  the  pres- 
ence of  Mr.  Fairlie. 

VI. 

My  conductor  led  me  up  stairs  into  a  passage 
which  took  us  back  to  the  bedchamber  in  which 
I  had  slept  during  the  past  night;  and  opening 
the  door  next  to  it,  begged  me  to  look  in. 

"  I  have  my  master's  orders  to  show  you  your 
own  sitting-room.  Sir,"  said  the  man,  "and  to 
inquire  if  you  approve  of  the  situation  and  the 
light." 

I  must  have  been  hard  to  please,  indeed,  if  I 
had  not  approved  of  the  room,  and  of  every 
tiling  about  it.  The  bow-window  looked  out  on 
the  same  lovely  view  which  I  had  admired,  in 
the  moi-ning,  from  my  bedroom.  The  furni- 
ture was  the  perfection  of  luxury  and  beauty; 
the  table  in  the  centre  was  bright  with  gayly- 
bound  books,  elegant  conveniences  for  writing, 
and  beautiful  flowers ;  the  second  table,  near 
the  window,  was  covered  with  all  the  necessary 
materials  for  mounting  water-color  drawings, 
and  had  a  little  easel  attached  to  it,  which  I 
could  expand  or  fold  up  at  will;  the  walls  were 
hung  with  gayly-tinted  chintz  ;  and  the  floor  was 
spi'ead  with  Indian  matting  in  maize-color  and 
red.  It  was  the  prettiest  and  most  luxurious 
little  sitting-room  I  had  ever  seen ;  and  I  ad- 
mired it  with  the  warmest  enthusiasm. 

The  solemn  servant  was  far  too  highly  trained 
to  betray  the  slightest  satisfaction.  He  bowed 
with  icy  deference  when  my  terms  of  eulogy 
were  all  exhausted,  and  silently  opened  the  door 
for  me  to  go  out  into  the  passage  again. 

We  turned  a  corner,  and  entered  a  long  sec- 
ond passage,  ascended  a  short  flight  of  stairs  at 
the  end,  crossed  a  small  circular  upper  hall,  and 
stopped  in  front  of  a  door  covered  with  dark 
baize.  The  servant  opened  this  door,  and  led 
me  on  a  few  yards  to  a  second;  opened  that 
also,  and  disclosed  two  curtains  of  pale  sea- 
green  silk  hanging  before  us;  raised  one  of 
them  noiselessly  ;  softly  uttered  the  words,  "  Mr. 
Hartright,"  and  left  me. 

I  found  myself  in  a  large,  lofty  room,  with  a 
magnificent  carved  ceiling,  and  with  a  caipet 
over  the  floor,  so  thick  and  soft  that  it  felt  like 
piles  of  velvet  under  my  feet.  One  side  of  the 
room  was  occupied  by  a  long  book-case  of  some 
rare  inlaid  wood  that  was  quite  new  to  me.  It 
was  not  more  than  six  feet  high,  and  the  top 
was  adorned  with  statuettes  in  marble,  ranged 
at  regular  distances  one  from  the  other.  On  the 
opposite  side  stood  two  antique  cabinets;  and 
between  them,  and  above  them,  hung  a  picture 
of  the  Virgin  and  Child,  protected  by  glass, 
and  bearing  Raphael's  name  on  the  gilt  tablet 
at  the  bottom  of  the  frame.  On  my  right  hand 
and  on  my  left,  as  I  stood  inside  the  door,  were 
chifl^oniers  and  little  stands  in  buhl  and  mar- 
quetterie,  loaded  with  figures  in  Dresden  china, 
with  rare  vases,  ivory  ornaments,  and  toys  and 
curiosities  that  sparkled  at  all  points  with  gold, 
silver,  and  precious  stones.  At  the  lower  end 
of  the  room,  opposite  to  me,  the  windows  were 
concealed  and  the   sunlight  was  tempered  by 


18 


THE  WOaiAN  IN  WHITE. 


large  blinds  of  the  same  pale  sea-green  color  as 
the  curtains  over  the  door.  The  light  thus  pro- 
duced was  deliciously  soft,  mysterious,  and  sub- 
dued ;  it  fell  equally  upon  all  the  objects  in  the 
room;  it  helped  to  intensify  the  deep  silence, 
and  the  air  of  profound  seclusion  that  possessed 
the  place ;  and  it  surrounded,  with  an  appropri- 
ate halo  of  repose,  tlie  solitary  figure  of  the 
master  of  the  house,  leaning  back,  listlessly 
composed,  in  a  large  easy-chair,  with  a  reading- 
easel  fastened  on  one  of  its  arms,  and  a  little  ta- 
ble on  the  other. 

If  a  man's  personal  appearance,  when  he  is 
out  of  his  dressing-room,  and  when  he  has  pass- 
ed forty,  can  be  accepted  as  a  safe  guide  to  his 
time  ot'  life — which  is  more  than  doubtful — 
Mr.  Fairlie's  age,  when  I  saw  him,  might  have 
been  reasonably  computed  at  over  fifty  and  un- 
der sixty  years.  His  beardless  face  was  thin, 
worn,  and  transparently  pale,  but  not  wrinkled ; 
his  nose  was  high  and  hooked ;  his  e3-es  were 
of  a  dim  grayish  blue,  large,  prominent,  and 
rather  red  round  the  rims  of  the  eyelids  ;  his 
hair  was  scanty,  soft  to  look  at,  and  of  that 
light  sandy  color  which  is  the  last  to  disclose 
its  own  changes  toward  gray.  He  was  dressed 
in  a  dark  frock-coat,  of  some  substance  mitch 
thinner  than  cloth,  and  in  waistcoat  and  trow- 
sers  of  spotless  white.  His  feet  were  effemi- 
nately small,  and  were  clad  in  buff-colored  silk 
stockings,  and  little  womanish  bronze-leather 
slippers.  Two  rings  adorned  his  white  delicate 
hands,  the  value  of  which  even  my  inexperi- 
enced observation  detected  to  be  all  but  price- 
less. Upon  the  whole,  he  had  a  frail,  languidly- 
fretful,  over-refined  look — something  singular- 
ly and  unpleasantly  delicate  in  its  association 
with  a  man,  and,  at  the  same  time,  something 
which  could  by  no  possibility  have  looked  nat- 
ural and  appropriate  if  it  had  been  transferred 
to  the  personal  appearance  of  a  woman.  My 
morning's  experience  of  Miss  Halcombe  had 
predisposed  me  to  be  pleased  with  every  bod}'  in 
the  house ;  but  my  sympathies  shut  themselves 
up  resolutely  at  the  first  sight  of  Mr.  Fairlie. 

On  approaching  nearer  to  him,  I  discovered 
that  he  was  not  so  entirely  without  occupation 
as  I  had  at  first  supposed.  Placed  amidst  the 
other  rare  and  beautiful  objects  on  a  large 
round  table  near  him,  was  a  dwarf  cabinet  in 
ebony  and  silver,  i;ontaining  coins  of  all  shapes 
and  sizes,  set  out  in  little  drawers  lined  with 
dark  purple  velvet.  One  of  these  drawers  lay 
on  tlie  small  table  attached  to  his  chair ;  and 
near  it  were  some  tiny  jewelers'  brushes,  a 
wash-leather  "stump,"  and  a  little  bottle  of 
liquid,  all  waiting  to  be  used  in  various  ways 
for  the  removal  of  any  accidental  impurities 
which  might  be  discovered  on  tlie  coins.  His 
frail  white  fingers  were  listlessly  toying  with 
something  which  looked,  to  my  uninstructed 
eyes,  like  a  dirty  pewter  medal  with  ragged 
edges,  when  I  advanced  within  a  resjiectful  dis- 
tance of  his  chair,  and  stopped  to  make  my  bow. 

"  So  glad  to  possess  you  at  Limmeridge,  Mr. 
Hartright,"  he  said,  in  a  querulous,  croaking 
voice,  which  combined,  in  any  thing  but  an 
agreeable  manner,  a  discordantly  liigh  tone 
with  a  drowsily  languid  utterance.  "  Pray  sit 
down.  And  don't  trouble  yourself  to  move  the 
chair,  please.  In  the  wretched  state  of  my 
nerves,  movement  of  any  kind  is  exquisitely 


painful  to  me.      Have  vou  seen  vour  studio  ? 
Will  it  do  ?" 

"  I  have  just  come  from  seeing  the  room,  Mr. 
Fairlie ;  and  I  assure  you — " 

He  stopped  me  in  the  middle  of  the  sentence, 
by  closing  his  eyes,  and  holding  up  one  of  his 
white  hands  imploringly.  I  paused  in  astonish- 
ment ;  and  the  croaking  voice  honored  me  with 
this  explanation : 

"Pray  excuse  me.  But  could  you  contrive 
to  speak  in  a  lower  key?  In  the  wretched 
state  of  my  nerves  loud  sound  of  any  kind  is 
indescribable  torture  to  me.  You  Mill  pardon 
an  invalid?  I  only  say  to  you  what  the  lam- 
entable state  of  my  health  obliges  me  to  say 
to  every  body.  Yes.  And  you  really  like  the 
room?" 

"I  could  vrish  for  nothing  prettier  and  no- 
thing more  comfortable,"  I  answered,  dropping 
my  voice,  and  beginning  to  discover  already 
that  Mr.  Fairlie's  selfish  affectation  and  ]\Ir. 
Fairlie's  wretched  nerves  meant  one  and  the 
same  thing. 

"  So  glad.  You  will  find  your  position  here, 
Mr.  Hartright,  properly  recognized.  There  is 
none  of  the  horrid  English  barbarit}'  of  feeling 
about  the  social  position  of  an  artist  in  this 
house.  So  much  of  my  early  life  has  been 
passed  abroad  that  I  have  quite  cast  my  insu- 
lar skin  in  that  respect.  I  wish  I  could  say  the 
same  of  the  gentry — detestable  word,  but  I  sup- 
pose I  must  use  it — of  the  gentry  in  the  neigh- 
borhood. They  are  sad  Goths  in  Art,  Mr.  Hart- 
right. Peojile,  I  do  assure  you,  who  would  have 
opened  their  eyes  in  astonishment  if  they  had 
seen  Charles  the  Fifth  pick  up  Titian's  brush 
for  him.  Do  you  mind  putting  this  tray  of 
coins  back  in  the  cabinet  and  giving  me  the 
next  one  to  it?  In  the  wretched  state  of  my 
nerves  exertion  of  any  kind  is  unspeakably  dis- 
agreeable to  me.     Yes.     Thank  you." 

As  a  practical  commentary  on  the  liberal  so- 
cial theory  which  he  had  just  favored  me  by 
illustrating,  Mr.  Fairlie's  cool  request  rather 
amused  me.  I  put  back  one  drawer  and  gave 
him  the  other,  with  all  possible  politeness.  He 
began  trifling  with  the  new  set  of  coins  and  the 
little  brushes  immediately,  languidly  looking  at 
them  and  admiring  them  all  the  time  he  was 
speaking  to  me. 

"  A  thousand  thanks  and  a  thousand  excuses. 
Do  you  like  coins?  Yes.  So  glad  Ave  have  an- 
other taste  in  common  besides  our  taste  for  Art. 
Now,  about  the  pecuniary  arrangements  between 
us — do  tell  me — are  they  satisfactory?" 
"Most  satisfactory,  Mr.  Fairlie." 
"So  glad.  And — what  next?  Ah!  I  re- 
member. Yes.  In  reference  to  the  considera- 
tion which  you  are  good  enough  to  accc])t  for 
ginng  me  the  benefit  of  your  accomjilishments 
in  art,  my  steward  will  wait  on  you  at  the  end 
of  the  first  week,  to  ascertain  your  wishes.  And 
— what  next?  Curious,  is  it  not?  I  had  a 
great  deal  more  to  say ;  and  I  ap]icar  to  have 
quite  forgotten  it.  Do  you  mind  touching  the 
bell  ?     In  that  corner.     Yes.     Thank  you." 

I  rang ;  and  a  new  servant  noiselessly  made 
his  ap])carance — a  foreigner,  with  a  set  smile 
and  ])erfcctly  brushed  hair — a  valet  every  inch 
of  him. 

"Loixis,"  said  Mr.  Fairlie,  dreamily  dusting 
the  tips  of  his  fingers  with  one  of  the  tiny 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


19 


"my  taste  was  sufficiently  educated  to  enable  me  to  appreciate  the  value  of  the 

DRAWINGS  while    I   TURNED   THEM    OVER." 


brushes  for  the  coins,  "  I  made  some  entries  in 
my  tablettes  this  morninp;.  Find  my  tablettes. 
A  th onsand  pardons,  Mr.  Hartwright.  I'm  afraid 
I  bore  you." 

As  he  wearily  closed  his  eyes  again,  before  I 
could  answer,  and  as  he  did  most  assuredly  bore 
me,  I  sat  silent,  and  looked  up  at  the  Madonna 
and  Child  by  Raphael.  In  the  mean  time,  the 
valet  left  the  room,  and  returned  shortly  with  a 
little  ivory  book.  Mr.  Fairlie,  after  first  reliev- 
ing himself  by  a  gentle  sigli,  let  the  book  drop 
open  with  one  hand,  and  held  up  the  tiny  brush 
with  the  other,  as  a  sign  to  the  servant  to  wait 
for  further  orders. 

"  Yes.  Just  so !"  said  Mr.  Fairlie,  consulting 
the  tablettes.  "Louis,  take  down  that  port- 
folio." He  pointed,  as  he  spoke,  to  several 
port-folios  placed  near  the  window,  on  mahogany 
stands.  "No.  Not  the  one  with  the  green 
back — that  contains  my  Rembrandt  etchings, 
Mr.  Hartright.  Do  j'ou  like  etchings?  Yes? 
So  glad  we  have  another  taste  in  common.  The 
port-folio  with  the  red  back,  Louis.  Don't  drop 
it !  You  have  no  idea  of  the  tortures  I  should 
suffer,   Mr,  Hartright,   if  Louis   dropped   that : 


port-folio.  Is  it  safe  on  the  chair?  Do  you 
think  it  safe,  Mr.  Hartright?  Yes?  So  glad. 
Will  you  olilige  me  by  looking  at  the  drawings, 
if  you  really  think  they're  quite  safe.  Louis, 
go  away.  What  an  ass  you  are.  Don't  you  see 
me  holding  the  tablettes?  Do  you  suppose  I 
want  to  hold  them  ?  Then  why  not  relieve  me 
of  the  tablettes  without  being  told?  A  thou- 
sand pardons,  Mr.  Hartright ;  servants  are  such 
asses,  are  they  not  ?  Do  tell  nie — what  do  you 
think  of  the  drawings  ?  They  have  come  from 
a  sale  in  a  shocking  state — I  thought  they 
smelled  of  horrid  dealers'  and  brokers'  fingers 
when  I  looked  at  them  last.  Can  you  undertake 
them  ?" 

Although  my  nerves  were  not  delicate  enough 
to  detect  the  odor  of  plebeian  fingers  which  had 
offended  Mr.  Fairlie's  nostrils,  my  taste  was 
sufficiently  educated  to  enable  me  to  appreciate 
the  value  of  the  drawings  while  I  turned  them 
over.  They  were,  for  the  most  part,  really  fine 
specimens  of  English  water-color  Art ;  and  they 
had  deserved  much  better  treatment  at  the  hands 
of  their  former  possessor  than  they  appeared  to 
have  received. 


20 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


"The  drawings,"  I  answered,  "require  care- 
ful straining  and  mounting;  and,  in  my  opinion, 
they  are  well  wortii — " 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  interposed  Mr.  Fairlie. 
"Do  you  mind  my  closing  my  eyes  while  you 
speak  ?  Even  this  light  is  too  much  for  them. 
Yes?" 

"I  was  about  to  say  that  the  drawings  are 
well  worth  all  the  time  and  trouble — " 

Mr.  Fairlie  suddenly  opened  his  eyes  again, 
and  rolled  them  with  an  expression  of  helpless 
alarm  in  the  direction  of  the  window. 

"I  entreat  you  to  excuse  me,  Mr.  Hartright," 
he  said,  in  a  feeble  flutter.  "But  surely  I  hear 
some  horrid  children  in  the  garden — my  private 
garden — below?" 

"I  can't  say,  Mr.  Fairlie.  I  heard  nothing 
myself." 

"Oblige  me — you  have  been  so  veiy  good  in 
humoring  my  poor  nerves — oblige  me  by  lifting 
up  a  corner  of  the  blind.  Don't  let  the  sun  in 
on  me,  Mr.  Hartright !  Have  you  got  the  blind 
up  ?  Yes  ?  Then  will  you  be  so  very  kind  as 
to  look  into  the  garden  and  make  quite  sure?" 

I  complied  with  this  new  request.  The  gar- 
den was  carefully  walled  in  all  round.  Not  a 
human  creature,  large  or  small,  ajipeared  in  any 
part  of  the  sacred  seclusion.  I  reported  that 
gratifying  fact  to  Mr.  Fairlie. 

"A  thousand  thanks.  My  fancy,  I  suppose. 
There  are  no  children,  thank  Heaven,  in  the 
house;  but  the  servants  (persons  born  without 
nerves)  will  encourage  the  children  from  the 
village.  Such  brats — oh,  dear  me,  such  brats ! 
Shall  I  confess  it,  Mr.  Hartright  ? — I  sadly 
want  a  reform  in  the  construction  of  children. 
Nature's  only  idea  seems  to  be  to  make  them 
machines  for  the  production  of  incessant  noise. 
Surely  our  delightful  EafFaello's  conception  is 
infinitely  preferable?" 

He  pointed  to  the  picture  of  the  Madonna, 
the  upper  part  of  which  rej^resented  the  conven- 
tional cherubs  of  Italian  Art,  celestially  pro- 
vided with  sitting  accommodation  for  their  chins, 
on  balloons  of  buff-colored  cloud. 

"Quite  a  model  family!"  said  Mr.  Fairlie, 
leering  at  the  cherubs.  "  Such  nice  round 
faces,  and  such  nice  soft  wings,  and — nothing 
else.  No  dirty  little  legs  to  run  about  on,  and 
no  noisy  little  lungs  to  scream  with.  How  im- 
measurably superior  to  the  existing  construc- 
tion !  I  will  close  my  eyes  again,  if  you  will 
allow  me.  And  you  really  can  manage  the 
drawings?  So  glad.  Is  there  any  thing  else 
to  settle  ?  If  there  is,  I  think  I  have  forgotten 
it.     Shall  we  ring  for  Louis  again?" 

Being  by  this  time  quite  as  anxious,  on  my 
side,  as  Mr.  Fairlie  evidently  was  on  his,  to  bring 
the  interview  to  a  speedy  conclusion,  I  thought 
I  would  try  to  render  the  summoning  of  the 
servant  unnecessary,  by  offering  the  requisite 
suggestion  on  my  own  responsibility. 

"  The  only  point,  Mi-.  Fairlie,  that  remains  to 
be  discussed,"  I  said,  "  refers,  I  think,  to  the 
instruction  in  sketcliing  which  I  am  engaged  to 
communicate  to  the  two  young  ladies." 

"Ah !  just  so,"  said  Mr.  Fairlie.  " I  wish  I 
felt  strong  enough  to  go  into  that  part  of  the 
arrangement — but  I  don't.  The  ladies,  who 
profit  by  your  kind  services,  ]\Ir.  Hartright,  must 
settle,  and  decide,  and  so  on,  for  themselves. 
My  niece  is  fond  of  your  charming  art.     She 


knows  just  enough  about  it  to  be  conscious  of 
her  own  sad  defects.  Please  take  pains  with 
her.  Yes.  Is  there  any  thing  else  ?  No.  We 
quite  understand  each  other — don't  we  ?  I  have 
no  right  to  detain  you  any  longer  from  your  de- 
lightful pursuit — have  I  ?  So  pleasant  to  have 
settled  everything — such  a  sensible  relief  to  have 
done  business.  Do  you  mind  ringing  for  Louis 
to  carry  the  port-folio  to  your  own  room  ?" 

"I  will  carry  it  there  myself,  Mr.  Fairlie,  if 
you  will  allow  me." 

"  Will  you  really  ?  Are  you  strong  enough  ? 
How  nice  to  be  so  strong!  Are  you  sure  you 
won't  drop  it  ?  So  glad  to  possess  you  at  Lim- 
mcridge,  Mr.  Hartright.  I  am  such  a  sufferer 
that  I  hardly  dare  hope  to  enjoy  much  of  your 
society.  Would  you  mind  taking  great  pains 
not  to  let  the  doors  bang,  and  not  to  drop  the 
port-folio?  Thank  you.  Gently  with  the  cur- 
tains, please  —  the  slightest  noise  from  them 
goes  through  me  like  a  knife.  Yes.  Good-mom- 
ing!" 

When  the  sea-green  curtains  were  closed,  and 
when  the  two  baize  doors  were  shut  behind  me, 
I  stopped  for  a  moment  in  the  little  circular  hall 
beyond,  and  drew  a  long,  luxurious  breath  of 
relief.  It  was  like  coming  to  the  surface  of  the 
water,  after  deep  diving,  to  find  myself  once 
more  on  the  outside  of  Mr.  Fairlie's  room. 

As  soon  as  I  was  comfortably  established  for 
the  morning  in  my  pretty  little  studio,  the  first 
resolution  at  which  I  arrived  was  to  turn  my 
steps  no  more  in  the  direction  of  the  apartments 
occupied  by  the  master  of  the  house,  except  in 
the  very  improbable  event  of  his  honoring  me 
with  a  special  invitation  to  pay  him  another 
visit.  Having  settled  this  satisfactory  plan  of 
future  conduct  in  reference  to  Mr.  Fairlie,  I 
soon  recovered  the  serenity  of  temper  of  which 
my  employer's  haughty  familiarity  and  impu- 
dent politeness  had  for  the  moment  deprived 
me.  The  remaining  hours  of  the  morning  passed 
away  pleasantly  enough,  in  looking  over  the 
drawings,  arranging  them  in  sets,  trimming 
their  ragged  edges,  and  accomplishing  the  other 
necessary  preparations  in  anticipation  of  the 
business  of  mounting  them.  I  ought,  perhaps, 
to  have  made  more  progress  than  this  ;  but,  as 
the  luncheon-time  drew  near,  I  grew  restless  and 
unsettled,  and  felt  unable  to  fix  my  attention  on 
work,  even  though  that  work  was  only  of  the 
humble  manual  kind. 

At  two  o'clock  I  descended  again  to  the 
breakfast-room,  a  little  anxiously.  Ex])ectations 
of  some  interest  were  coimected  with  my  ap- 
])roaching  reappearance  in  tliat  part  of  the  house. 
My  introduction  to  Miss  Fairlie  was  now  close 
at  hand ;  and,  if  Miss  Halcombe's  search  through 
her  mother's  letters  had  produced  the  result 
whicli  she  anticipated,  the  time  had  come  for 
clearing  up  the  mystery  of  the  woman  in 
white. 

VII. 

When  I  entered  the  room,  I  found  Jliss  Hal- 
comlic  and  an  elderly  lady  seated  at  the  lunch- 
eon-table. 

The  elderly  lady,  when  I  was  presented  to  her, 
proved  to  be  Miss  Fairlie's  former  governess, 
J\lrs.  Vcsey,  wlio  had  been  briefly  described  to 
me  by  my  lively  companion  at  the  breakfast-ta- 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


21 


ble,  as  possessed  of  "  all  the  cardinal  virtues, 
and  countiiif;  for  nothing."  I  can  do  little  more 
than  oti'er  my  humble  testimony  to  the  truthful- 
ness of  Miss  Halcombe's  sketch  of  the  old  lady's 
character.  Mrs.  Vesey  looked  the  personifica- 
tion of  human  composure  and  female  amiability. 
A  calm  enjoyment  of  a  calm  existence  beamed 
in  drowsy  smiles  on  her  plum]),  placid  face. 
Some  of  us  rush  through  life ;  and  some  of  us 
saunter  through  life.  Mrs.  Vesey  sat  through 
life.  Sat  in  the  house,  early  and  late ;  sat  in 
the  garden  ;  sat  in  unexpected  window-seats  in 
passages ;  sat  (on  a  camp-stool)  when  her  friends 
tried  to  take  her  out  walking;  sat  before  she 
looked  at  any  thing,  before  she  talked  of  any 
thing,  before  she  answered,  Yes,  or  No,  to  the 
commonest  question — always  with  the  same  se- 
rene smile  on  her  lips,  the  same  vacantly  atten- 
tive turn  of  her  head,  the  same  snugly,  comfort- 
able position  of  her  hands  and  arms,  under  ev- 
eiy  possible  change  of  domestic  circumstances. 
A  mild,  a  compliant,  an  unutterably  tranquil 
and  harmless  old  lady,  who  never  by  any  chance 
suggested  the  idea  that  she  had  been  actually 
alive  since  the  hour  of  her  birth.  Nature  has 
so  mucli  to  do  in  this  world,  and  is  engaged  in 
generating  such  a  vast  variety  of  coexistent  pro- 
ductions, that  she  must  surely  be  now  and  then 
too  flurried  and  confused  to  distinguish  between 
the  ditferent  processes  that  she  is  carrying  on 
at  the  same  time.  Starting  from  this  point  of 
view,  it  will  always  remain  my  private  j^ersua- 
sion  that  Nature  was  absoi'bed  in  making  cab- 
bages when  Mrs.  Vesey  was  born,  and  that  the 
good  lady  suffered  the  consequences  of  a  vegeta- 
ble preoccupation  in  the  mind  of  the  Mother  of 
us  all. 

"Now,  Mrs.  Vesey,"  said  Miss  Halcombe, 
looking  brighter,  sharper,  and  readier  than  ever, 
by  contrast  with  the  undemonstrative  old  lady  at 
her  side,  "  what  will  you  have  ?     A  cutlet  ?" 

Mrs.  Vesey  crossed  her  dimjded  hands  on  the 
edge  of  the  table ;  smiled  placidly ;  and  said, 
"Yes,  dear." 

"What  is  that,  opposite  Mr.  Ilartright? 
Boiled  chicken,  is  it  not?  I  thought  you  liked 
boiled  cliicken  better  than  cutlet,  Mrs.  Vesey?" 

Mrs.  Vesey  took  her  dimpled  hands  off  the 
edge  of  the  table  and  crossed  them  on  her  lap 
instead ;  nodded  contemplatively  at  the  boiled 
chicken,  and  said,  "Yes,  dear." 

"Well,  but  which  will  you  have,  to-day? 
Shall  Mr.  Hartright  give  you  some  chicken  ?  or 
shall  I  give  you  some  cutlet?" 

Mrs.  Vesey  put  one  of  her  dimpled  hands 
back  again  on  the  edge  of  the  table ;  hesitated 
drowsily  ;  and  said,  "  Which  you  please,  dear." 

"Mercy  on  me !  it's  a  question  for  your  taste, 
my  good  lady,  not  for  mine.  Suppose  you  have 
a  little  of  both  ?  and  suppose  you  begin  with  the 
chicken,  because  Mr.  Hartright  looks  devoured 
by  anxiety  to  carve  for  you  ?" 

Mrs.  Vesey  put  the  other  dimpled  hand  back 
on  the  edge  of  the  table ;  brightened  dimly,  one 
moment ;  went  out  again,  the  next ;  bowed  obe- 
diently; and  said,  "  If  you  please.  Sir." 

Surely  a  mild,  a  compliant,  an  unutterably 
tranquil  and  harmless  old  lady  ?  But  enough, 
perhaps,  for  the  present,  of  Mrs.  Vesey. 

All  this  time  there  were  no  signs  of  Miss 
Fairlie.     We  finished  our  luncheon ;   and  still 


she  never  appeared.  ]\Iiss  Halcombe,  whose 
quick  eye  nothing  escaped,  noticed  the  looks 
that  I  cast,  from  time  to  time,  in  the  direction 
of  the  door. 

"I  understand  you,  Mr.  Hartright,"  she  said ; 
"  you  are  wondering  what  has  become  of  your 
other  pupil.  She  has  been  down  stairs,  and  has 
got  over  her  headache  ;  but  has  not  sufficiently 
recovered  her  appetite  to  join  us  at  lunch.  If 
you  will  put  yourself  under  my  charge,  I  think 
I  can  undertake  to  find  her  somewhere  in  the 
garden." 

She  took  up  a  parasol,  lying  on  a  chair  near 
her,  and  led  the  way  out,  by  a  long  window  at 
the  bottom  of  the  room,  which  opened  on  to  the 
lawn.  It  is  almost  unnecessary  to  say  that  we 
left  Mrs.  Vesey  still  seated  at  the  table,  with 
her  dimpled  hands  still  crossed  on  tlie  edge  of 
it;  apparently  settled  in  that  position  for  the 
rest  of  the  afternoon. 

As  we  crossed  the  lawn.  Miss  Halcombe  look- 
ed at  me  significantly,  and  shook  her  head. 

"That  mysterious  adventure  of  yours,"  she 
said,  "  still  remains  involved  in  its  own  appro- 
priate midnight  darkness.  I  have  been  all  the 
morning  looking  over  my  mother's  letters ;  and 
I  have  made  no  discoveries  yet.  However, 
don't  despair,  Mr.  Hartright.  This  is  a  matter 
of  curiosity ;  and  you  have  got  a  woman  for 
your  ally.  Under  such  conditions,  success  is 
certain,  sooner  or  later.  The  letters  are  not 
exhausted.  I  have  three  packets  still  left,  and 
you  may  confidently  rely  on  my  spending  the 
whole  evening  over  them." 

Here,  then,  was  one  of  my  anticipations  of 
the  morning  still  unfulfilled.     I  began  to  won- 


22 


THE  WOJIAN  IN  WHITE. 


, Ji/;NX        i      i 


"  SHE   WAS    STANCraG  NEAR   A   RUSTIC   TABLE- 


der  next  whether  my  introduction  to  Miss  Eair- 
lie  would  disappoint  the  expectations  that  I  had 
been  forming  of  Iier  since  breakfast-time. 

"  And  how  did  you  get  on  with  my  uncle  ?" 
inquired  Miss  Halcombe,  as  we  left  the  lawn 
and  turned  into  a  shrubbery.  "  Was  he  par- 
ticularly nervous  this  mornino;  ?  Never  mind 
considering  about  your  answer,  ]\Ir.  Ilartright. 
The  mere  fact  of  your  being  obliged  to  consider 
is  enough  for  me.  I  see  in  your  face  that  he 
was  particularly  nervous ;  and,  as  I  am  amiably 
unwilling  to  throw  you  into  the  same  condition, 
I  ask  no  more." 

We  turned  off  into  a  winding  path  while  she 
was  speaking,  and  approached  a  ])retty  summei'- 
house,  built  of  wood,  in  the  form  of  a  miniature 
Swiss  chalet.  The  one  room  of  the  summer- 
house,  as  we  ascended  the  stejis  at  the  door,  was 
occupied  by  a  young  lady.  Slic  was  standing 
near  a  rustic  talile,  looking  out  at  the  inland 
view  of  moor  and  hill  presented  1\v  a  gap  in  the 
trees,  and  absently  turning  over  the  leaves  of  a 
little  sketch-book  that  lay  at  her  side.  This 
was  Miss  Fairlie. 

How  can  I  describe  her?  How  can  I  sep- 
arate her  from  my  own  sensations,  and  from 
all  that  has  happened  in  the  later  time?     How 


can  I  see  her  again  as  she  looked  when  my 
eyes  first  rested  on  her — as  she  should  look, 
now,  to  the  eyes  that  are  about  to  see  her  in 
these  pages? 

The  water-color  drawing  that  I  made  of  Lanra 
Fairlie,  at  an  after-period,  in  the  place  and  at- 
titude in  which  I  first  saw  her,  lies  on  my  desk 
while  I  write.  I  look  at  it,  and  there  dawns 
upon  me  brightly,  from  the  dark  greenish-brown 
back-ground  of  the  summer-house,  a  liglit, 
youthful  figure,  clothed  in  a  simple  muslin 
dress,  the  ])attern  of  it  formed  by  broad  altern- 
ate stripes  of  delicate  blue  and  white.  A 
scarf  of  the  same  material  sits  crisply  and 
closely  round  her  shoulders,  and  a  little  straw- 
hat,  of  the  natural  color,  plainly  and  sparingly 
trimmed  with  ribbon  to  match  the  gown,  covers 
her  head,  and  throws  its  soft  pearly  shadow  over 
the  upper  i)art  of  her  face.  Her  hair  is  of  so 
faint  and  pale  a  brown — not  flaxen,  and  yet  al- 
most as  light;  not  golden,  and  yet  almost  as 
glossy — that  it  nearly  melts,  here  and  there,  into 
the  shadow  of  the  hat.  It  is  plainly  parted  and 
drawn  back  over  her  ears,  and  the  line  of  it 
rii)]iles  naturally  as  it  crosses  her  forehead.  The 
eyebrows  are  rather  darker  than  the  hair;  and 
tiic  eyes  are  of  that  soft,  limpid,  turquoise  blue, 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WiUTE. 


23 


so  often  sung  by  the  poets,  so  seldom  seen  in 
real  life.  Lovely  eyes  in  color,  lovely  eyes  in 
form — large  and  tender,  and  quietly  thoughtful 
— but  beautiful  above  all  things  in  the  clear 
truthfulness  of  look  that  dwells  in  their  inmost 
depths,  and  shines  through  all  their  changes  of 
expression  with  the  light  of  a  purer  and  a  better 
world.  The  charm — most  gently  and  yet  most 
distinctly  expressed — which  they  shed  over  the 
whole  face,  so  covers  and  transforms  its  little 
natural  human  blemishes  elsewhere,  that  it  is 
difficult  to  estimate  the  relative  merits  and  de- 
fects of  the  other  features.  It  is  hard  to  see 
that  the  lower  part  of  the  face  is  too  delicately 
refined  away  toward  the  chin  to  be  in  full  and 
fair  proportion  with  the  upper  part;  that  the 
nose,  in  escaping  the  aquiline  bend  (always 
hard  and  cruel  in  a  woman,  no  matter  how  ab- 
stractedly perfect  it  may  be),  has  erred  a  little 
in  the  other  extreme,  and  has  missed  the  ideal 
straightness  of  line ;  and  that  the  sw-eet,  sensi- 
tive lips  are  subject  to  a  slight  nervous  contrac- 
tion, when  she  smiles,  which  draws  them  up- 
ward a  little  at  one  corner,  toward  the  cheek. 
It  might  be  possible  to  note  these  blemishes  in 
another  woman's  face,  but  it  is  not  easy  to  dwell 
on  them  in  hers,  so  subtly  are  they  connected 
with  all  that  is  individual  and  characteristic  in 
her  expression,  and  so  closely  does  the  expres- 
sion depend  for  its  full  play  and  life,  in  every 
other  feature,  on  the  moving  impulse  of  the  eyes. 

Does  ni}''  poor  portrait  of  her,  m}"  fond,  patient 
labor  of  long  and  hap])y  days,  show  me  these 
things?  Ah,  how  few  of  them  are  in  the  dim 
mechanical  drawing,  and  how  many  in  the  mind 
with  which  I  regard  it !  A  fair,  delicate  girl, 
in  a  pretty  light  dress,  trifling  with  the  leaves 
of  a  sketch-book,  while  she  looks  up  from  it 
with  truthful  innocent  blue  eyes — that  is  all 
the  drawing  can  say ;  all,  perhaps,  that  even 
the  deeper  reach  of  thought  and  pen  can  say  in 
their  language,  either.  The  woman  who  first 
gives  life,  light,  and  form  to  our  shadowy  con- 
ceptions of  beauty,  fills  a  void  in  our  spiritual 
nature  that  has  remained  unknown  to  us  till 
she  appeared.  Sympathies  that  lie  too  deep 
for  words,  too  deep  almost  for  thoughts,  are 
touched,  at  such  times,  by  other  charms  than 
those  which  the  senses  feel  and  which  the  re- 
sources of  expression  can  realize.  The  mystery 
which  underlies  the  beauty  of  women  is  never 
raised  above  the  reach  of  all  expression  until  it 
has  claimed  kindred  with  the  deeper  mystery 
in  our  own  souls.  Then,  and  then  only,  has  it 
passed  beyond  the  narrow  region  on  which  light 
falls,  in  this  world,  from  the  pencil  and  the  pen. 

Think  of  her,  as  you  thought  of  the  first  wo- 
man who  quickened  the  pulses  within  yon  that 
the  rest  of  her  sex  had  no  art  to  stir.  Let  the 
kind,  candid  blue  eyes  meet  yours,  as  they  met 
mine,  with  the  one  matchless  look  which  we 
both  remember  so  well.  Let  her  voice  speak 
the  music  that  you  once  loved  best,  attuned  as 
sweetly  to  your  ear  as  to  mine.  Let  her  foot- 
step, as  she  comes  and  goes  in  these  pages,  be 
like  that  other  footstep  to  whose  airy  fall  your 
own  heart  once  beat  time.  Take  her  as  the  vi- 
sionary nursling  of  your  own  fancy ;  and  she 
will  grow  upon  you,  all  the  more  clearly,  as  the 
living  woman  who  dwells  in  mine. 

Among  the  sensations  that  crowded  on  me, 
when  my  eyes  first  looked  upon  her — famiHar 


sensations  which  we  all  know,  which  spring  to 
life  in  most  of  our  hearts,  die  again  in  so  many, 
and  renew  their  bright  existence  in  so  few — 
there  was  one  that  troubled  and  perplexed  me ; 
one  that  seemed  strangely  inconsistent  and  un- 
accountably out  of  place  in  INIiss  Fairlie's  pres- 
ence. 

Alingling  with  the  vivid  impression  produced 
by  the  charm  of  her  fair  face  and  head,  her 
sweet  expression,  and  her  winning  simplicity 
of  manner,  was  another  impression,  which,  in 
a  shadowy  way,  suggested  to  me  the  idea  of 
something  wanting.  At  one  time  it  seemed 
like  something  wanting  in  Iier ;  at  another,  like 
something  wanting  in  myself,  which  hindered 
me  from  understanding  her  as  I  ought.  The 
impression  was  always  strongest,  in  the  most 
contradictory  manner,  when  she  looked  at  me ; 
or,  in  other  words,  when  I  was  most  conscious 
of  the  harmony  and  charm  of  her  face,  and  yet, 
at  the  same  time,  most  troubled  by  the  sense 
of  an  incompleteness  which  it  was  impossible 
to  discover.  Something  wanting — something 
wanting — and  where  it  was,  and  what  it  was,  I 
could  not  say. 

The  effect  of  this  curious  caprice  of  fancy  (as 
I  thought  it  then)  was  not  of  a  nature  to  set  me 
at  my  ease,  during  a  first  interview  with  Miss 
Fairlie.  The  few  kind  words  of  welcome  which 
she  spoke  found  me  hardly  self-possessed  enough 
to  thank  her  in  the  customary  phrases  of  reply. 
Observing  my  hesitation,  and  no  doubt  attribu- 
ting it,  naturally  enough,  to  some  momentary 
shyness  on  my  jiart.  Miss  Halcombe  took  the 
business  of  talking,  as  easily  and  readily  as 
usual,  into  her  own  hands. 

"  Look  there,  Mr.  Hartright,"  she  said,  point- 
ing to  the  sketch-book  on  the  table,  and  to  the 
little  delicate  wandering  hand  that  was  still 
trifling  with  it.  "  Surely  j'ou  will  acknowledge 
that  your  model  pupil  is  found  at  last  ?  The 
moment  she  hears  that  you  are  in  the  house, 
she  seizes  her  inestimable  sketch-book,  looks 
universal  Nature  straight  in  the  face,  and  longs 
to  begin !" 

]\Iiss  Fairlie  laughed  with  a  ready  good-hu- 
mor, which  broke  out,  as  brightly  as  if  it  had 
been  part  of  the  sunshine  above  us,  over  her 
lovely  face. 

"  I  must  not  take  credit  to  myself  where  no 
credit  is  due,"  she  said ;  her  clear,  trutliful  blue 
eyes  looking  alternately  at  Miss  Halcombe  and 
at  me.  "Fond  as  I  am  of  drawing,  I  am  so 
conscious  of  my  own  ignorance  that  I  am  more 
afraid  than  anxious  to  begin.  Now  I  know  you 
are  here,  Mr.  Hartright,  I  find  myself  looking 
over  my  sketches,  as  I  used  to  look  over  my  les- 
sons when  I  was  a  little  girl,  and  when  I  was 
sadlv  afraid  that  I  should  turn  out  not  fit  to  be 
heard." 

She  made  the  confession  very  prettily  and 
simply,  and,  with  quaint,  childish  earnestness, 
di'ew  the  sketch-book  away  close  to  her  own 
side  of  the  table.  Miss  Halcombe  cut  the  knot 
of  the  little  embarrassment  forthwith,  in  her 
resolute,  downright  way. 

"Good,  bad,  or  indifferent,"  she  said,  "the 
pupil's  sketches  must  pass  through  the  fiery 
ordeal  of  the  master's  judgment — and  there's 
an  end  of  it.  Suppose  we  take  them  w-ith  us 
in  the  carriage,  Laura,  and  let  Mr.  Hartright 
see  them,  for  the  first  time,  under  circumstances 


24 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


of  perpetual  jolting  and  interruption  ?  If  we 
can  only  confuse  him  all  through  tlie  drive,  be- 
tween Nature  as  it  is,  when  he  looks  up  at  the 
view,  and  Nature  as  it  is  not,  when  he  looks 
down  again  at  our  sketch-books,  we  shall  drive 
him  into  the  last  desperate  refuge  of  paying  us 
compliments,  and  shall  slip  through  his  profes- 
sional fingers  with  our  pet  feathers  of  vanity  all 
unruffled." 

"I  hope  Mr.  Ilartright  will  pay  me  no  com- 
pliments," said  Miss  Fairlie,  as  we  all  left  the 
summer-house. 

"May  I  venture  to  inquire  why  you  express 
that  hope  ?"  I  asked. 

"Because  I  shall  believe  all  that  you  say  to 
me,"  she  answered,  simply. 

In  those  few  words  she  unconsciously  gave 
me  the  key  to  her  whole  character ;  to  that 
generous  trust  in  others  which,  in  her  nature, 
gTew  innocently  out  of  the  sense  of  her  own 
truth.  I  only  knew  it  intuitively,  then.  I  know 
it  by  experience,  now. 

We  merely  waited  to  rouse  good  Mrs.  Vesey 
from  the  place  which  she  still  occupied  at  the 
deserted  luncheon-table,  before  we  entered  the 
open  carriage  for  our  promised  drive.  The  old 
lady  and  Miss  Halcombe  occupied  the  back 
seat;  and  Miss  Fairlie  and  I  sat  together  in 
front,  with  the  sketch-book  o])en  between  us, 
fairly  exhibited  at  last  to  my  professional  eyes. 
All  serious  criticism  on  the  drawings,  even  if  I 
bad  been  disposed  to  volunteer  it,  Avas  rendered 
impossible  by  Miss  Halcomlie's  lively  resolution 
to  see  -nothing  but  the  ridiculous  side  of  the 
Fine  Arts,  as  practiced  by  herself,  her  sistei', 
and  ladies  in  general.  I  can  remember  the 
conversation  that  passed,  far  more  easily  than 
the  sketches  that  I  mechanically  looked  over. 
That  part  of  the  talk,  especially,  in  which  Miss 
Fairlie  took  any  share,  is  still  as  vividly  impress- 
ed on  my  memory  as  if  I  had  heard  it  only  a 
few  hours  ago. 

Yes !  let  me  acknowledge  that,  on  this  first 
day,  I  let  the  charm  of  her  presence  lure  me 
from  the  recollection  of  myself  and  my  position. 
The  most  trifling  of  the  questions  that  she  put 
to  me,  on  the  subject  of  using  her  i)encil  and 
mixing  her  colors ;  the  slightest  alterations  of 
expression  in  the  lovely  eyes  that  looked  into 
mine,  with  such  an  earnest  desire  to  learn  all 
that  I  could  teach  and  to  discover  all  that  I 
could  show,  attracted  more  of  my  attention  than 
the  finest  view  we  passed  through,  or  the  grand- 
est changes  of  light  and  shade,  as  they  flowed 
into  eacli  other  over  the  waving  moorland  and 
the  level  beach.  At  any  time,  and  under  any 
circumstances  of  human  interest,  is  it  not  strange 
to  see  how  little  real  hold  the  objects  of  the 
natural  world  amidst  which  we  live  can  gain  on 
our  hearts  and  minds?  We  go  to  Nature  for 
comfort  in  trouble,  and  sympathy  in  joy,  only 
in  books.  Admiration  of  those  beauties  of  the 
inanimate  world,  which  modern  poetry  so  large- 
ly and  so  eloquently  describes,  is  not,  even  in 
the  best  of  us,  one  of  the  original  instincts  of 
our  nature.  As  children,  we  none  of  us  possess 
it.  No  uninstructcd  man  or  woman  ])osse»ses 
it.  Those  whose  lives  arc  most  exclusively  ])ass- 
ed  amidst  the  ever-changing  wonders  of  sea  and 
land,  are  also  those  who  are  most  universally 
insensible  to  every  aspect  of  Nature  not  directly 
associated  with  the  human  interest  of  their  call- 


ing. Our  capacity  of  appreciating  the  beauties 
of  the  earth  we  live  on,  is,  in  truth,  one  of  the 
civilized  accomplishments  which  we  all  learn, 
as  an  Art ;  and,  more,  that  very  ca])acity  is  rare- 
ly practiced  by  any  of  us  except  when  our  minds 
are  most  indolent  and  most  unoccupied.  How 
much  share  have  the  attractions  of  Nature  ever 
had  in  tlie  pleasurable  or  painful  interests  and 
emotions  of  ourselves  or  our  friends  ?  What 
space  do  they  ever  occupy  in  the  thousand  little 
narratives  of  personal  ex])erience  which  pass 
e\ery  day  by  word  of  mouth  from  one  of  us  to 
the  other?  All  that  our  minds  can  compass, 
all  that  our  hearts  can  learn,  can  be  accomjdish- 
ed  with  equal  certainty,  equal  profit,  and  equal 
satisfaction  to  ourselves,  in  the  ])oorest  as  in  the 
richest  prospect  that  the  face  of  the  earth  can 
show.  There  is  surely  a  reason  for  this  want 
of  inborn  sympathy  between  the  creature  and 
the  creation  around  it,  a  reason  which  may  per- 
haps be  found  in  the  widely-diftering  destinies 
of  man  and  his  earthly  sphere.  The  grandest 
mountain  prospect  that  the  eye  can  range  over 
is  ajipointed  to  annihilation.  The  smallest  hu- 
man interest  that  the  jjure  heart  can  feel  is  ap- 
pointed to  immortality. 

We  had  been  out  nearly  three  hours,  when 
the  carriage  again  passed  through  the  gates  of 
Limmeridgc  House. 

On  our  way  back,  I  had  let  the  ladies  settle 
for  themselves  the  first  point  of  view  which  they 
were  to  sketch,  luider  my  instructions,  on  the 
afternoon  of  the  next  day.  When  they  with- 
drew to  dress  for  dinner,  and  when  I  was  alone 
again  in  my  little  sitting-room,  my  spirits  seem- 
ed to  leave  me  on  a  sudden.  I  felt  ill  at  ease 
and  dissatisfied  with  myself,  I  hardly  knew 
why.  Perhaps  I  was  now  conscious,  for  the 
first  time,  of  having  enjoyed  our  drive  too  much 
in  the  character  of  a  guest,  and  too  little  in  the 
character  of  a  drawing-master.  Ferha]is  that 
strange  sense  of  something  wanting,  either  in 
Miss  Fairlie  or  in  myself,  which  had  perplexed 
me  when  I  was  first  introduced  to  her,  haunted 
me  still.  Anyhow,  it  was  a  relief  to  my  spirits 
when  the  dinner-bell  called  me  out  of  my  soli- 
tude, and  took  me  back  to  the  society  of  the  la- 
dies of  the  house. 

I  was  struck,  on  entering  the  drawing-room, 
by  the  curious  contrast,  rather  in  material  than 
in  color,  of  the  dresses  which  the}-  now  wore. 
While  Mrs.  Vesey  and  Miss  Halcombe  were 
richly  clad  (each  in  the  manner  most  becoming 
to  her  age),  the  first  in  silver-gray,  and  the 
second  in  that  delicate  jirimrose-yellow  color, 
whicli  matches  so  well  with  a  dark  com])lexion 
and  black  hair,  Miss  Fairlie  was  unpretending- 
ly and  almost  poorly  dressed  in  plain  white  mus- 
lin. It  was  sjjotlessly  pure ;  it  was  beautifully 
])ut  on  ;  but  still  it  was  the  sort  of  dress  which 
the  wife  or  daugliter  of  a  jioor  man  might  have 
worn ;  and  it  made"  the  heiress  of  Limmeridge 
House,  so  far  as  externals  went,  look  less  afflu- 
ent in  circumstances  tlian  her  own  governess. 
At  a  later  ]ieriod,  when  I  learned  to  know  more 
of  Miss  Fairlie's  character,  I  dist'overed  that 
this  curious  contrast,  on  the  wrong  side,  was 
due  to  her  natural  delicacy  of  feeling  and  nat- 
ural intensity  of  aversion  to  the  slightest  per- 
sonal dis]ilay  of  her  own  wealth.  Neither  Mrs. 
Vesey  nor  Miss  Halcombe  could  ever  induce 
her  to  let  the  advantage  in  dress  desert  the  two 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


2n 


ladies  who  were  poor,  to  lean  to  the  side  of  the 
one  lady  who  was  rich. 

When  dinner  was  over,  we  returned  together 
to  the  drawini^-room.  Although  Mr.  Fairlie 
(emulating  the  magnificent  condescension  of 
the  monarch  who  had  picked  up  Titian's  hrush 
for  him)  had  instructed  his  butler  to  consult  my 
wishes  in  relation  to  the  wine  thai  I  might  pre- 
fer after  dinner,  I  was  resolute  enough  to  resist 
the  temjitation  of  sitting  in  solitary  grandeur 
among  bottles  of  my  own  choosing,  and  sensi- 
ble enough  to  ask  the  ladies'  permission  to  leave 
the  table  with  them  habitually,  on  the  civilized 
foreign  plan,  during  the  period  of  my  residence 
at  Limmeridge  House. 

The  drawing-room,  to  which  we  had  now 
withdrawn  for  the  rest  of  the  evening,  was  on 
the  ground-floor,  and  was  of  the  same  shape  and 
size  as  the  breakfast-room.  Large  glass  doors 
at  the  lower  end  opened  on  to  a  terrace,  beau- 
tifully oviiamented  along  its  whole  length  with 
n  profusion  of  flowers.  The  soft,  hazy  twilight 
was  just  shading  leaf  and  blossom  alike  into 
harmony  with  its  own  sober  hues,  as  we  enter- 
ed the  room ;  and  the  sweet  evening  scent  of 
tlie  flowers  met  us  Avitli  its  fragrant  welcome 
through  the  open  glass  doors.  Good  Mrs. 
Vesey  (always  the  first  of  the  party  to  sit  down) 
took  possession  of  an  arm-chair  in  a  corner,  and 
dozed  off"  comfortably  to  sleep.  At  my  request. 
Miss  Fairlie  placed  herself  at  the  piano.  As  I 
followed  her  to  a  seat  near  the  instrument,  I 
saw  Miss  Halcombe  retii-e  into  a  recess  of  one 
of  the  side  windows,  to  proceed  with  the  search 
through  her  mother's  letters  by  the  last  quiet 
rays  of  the  evening  light. 

How  vividly  that  peaceful  home-picture  of 
the  drawing-room  comes  back  to  me  while  I 
write !  From  the  jilace  where  I  sat,  I  could  see 
Miss  Halcombe's  graceful  figure,  half  of  it  in 
soft  light,  half  in  mysterious  shadow,  bending 
intently  over  the  letters  in  her  lap ;  while,  near- 
er to  me,  the  fair  profile  of  the  player  at  the 
piano  was  just  delicately  defined  against  the 
faintly  deepening  back-ground  of  the  inner  wall 
of  the  i-oom.  Outside,  on  the  terrace,  the  clus- 
tering flowers  and  long  grasses  and  creejters 
waved  so  gently  in  the  light  evening  air,  that 
the  sound  of  their  rustling  never  reached  us. 
The  sky  was  without  a  cloud;  and  the  dawning 
mystery  of  moonlight  began  to  tremble  already 
in  the  region  of  the  eastern  heaven.  The  sense 
of  peace  and  seclusion  soothed  all  thought  and 
feeling  into  a  rapt,  unearthly  repose;  and  the 
balmy  quiet  that  deepened  ever  with  the  deep- 
ening light,  seemed  to  hover  over  us  with  a  gen- 
tler influence  still,  when  there  stole  upon  it 
from  the  piano  the  heavenly  tenderness  of  the 
music  of  Mozart.  It  was  an  evening  of  sights 
and  sounds  never  to  forget. 

We  all  sat  silent  in  the  places  we  had  chosen 
— Mrs.  Vesey  still  sleeping,  Miss  Fairlie  still 
playing,  Miss  Halcombe  still  reading — till  the 
light  failed  us.  By  this  time  the  moon  had 
stolen  round  to  the  terrace,  and  soft,  mysterious 
rays  of  light  were  slanting  already  across  the 
lower  end  of  the  room.  The  change  from  the 
twilight  obscurity  was  so  beautiful,  that  we  ban- 
ished the  lamps,  by  common  consent,  when  the 
servant  brought  them  in;  and  kept  the  large 
room  unlighted,  except  by  the  glimmer  of  the 
two  candles  at  the  piano. 


For  half  an  hour  more,  the  music  still  went 
on.  After  that,  the  beauty  of  the  moonlight 
view  on  the  terrace  tenlpted  Miss  Fairlie  out  to 
look  at  it ;  and  I  followed  her.  When  the 
candles  at  the  piano  had  been  lighted,  Miss 
Halcombe  had  changed  her  place,  so  as  to  con- 
tinue her  examination  of  the  letters  by  their  as- 
sistance. We  left  her,  on  a  low  chair,  at  one 
side  of  the  instrument,  so  absorbed  over  her 
reading  that  she  did  not  seem  to  notice  when 
we  moved. 

We  had  been  out  on  the  terrace  together, 
just  in  front  of  the  glass  doors,  hardly  so  long 
as  five  minutes,  I  should  think  ;  and  Miss  Fair- 
lie  was,  by  my  advice,  just  tying  her  white 
handkerchief  over  her  head  as  a  precaution 
against  the  night  air — when  I  heard  Miss  Hal- 
combe's voice — low,  eager,  and  altered  from  its 
natural  lively  tone — pronounce  my  name. 

"Mr.  Hartright,"  she  said,  "will  you  come 
here  for  a  minute?     I  want  to  speak  to  you." 

I  entered  the  room  again  immediately.  The 
piano  stood  about  half-way  down  along  the  in- 
ner wall.  On  the  side  of  the  instrument  far- 
thest from  the  terrace.  Miss  Halcombe  was  sit- 
ting with  the  letters  scattered  on  her  lap,  and 
with  one  in  her  hand  selected  from  them,  and 
held  close  to  the  candle.  On  the  side  nearest 
to  the  terrace  there  stood  a  low  ottoman,  on 
which  I  took  my  place.  In  this  position,  I  was 
not  far  from  the  glass  doors ;  and  I  could  see 
Miss  Fairlie  plainly,  as  she  passed  and  repassed 
the  opening  on  to  the  terrace ;  walking  slowly 
from  end  to  end  of  it  in  the  full  radiance  of  the 
moon. 

"  I  want  you  to  listen  while  I  read  the  con- 
cluding passages  in  this  letter,"  said  Miss  Hal- 
combe. "Tell  me  if  you  think  they  throw  any 
light  upon  your  strange  adventure  on  the  roa(J 
to  London.  The  letter  is  addressed  by  my  mo- 
ther to  her  second  husband,  Mr.  Fairlie ;  and 
the  date  refers  to  a  period  of  between  eleven  and 
twelve  years  since.  At  that  time,  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Fairlie,  and  my  half-sister  Laura,  had  been  liv- 
ing for  years  in  this  house ;  and  I  was  away 
from  them,  completing  my  education  at  a  school 
in  Paris." 

She  looked  and  spoke  earnestly,  and,  as  I 
thought,  a  little  uneasily,  as  well.  At  the  mo- 
ment when  she  raised  the  letter  to  the  candle, 
before  beginning  to  read  it.  Miss  Fairlie  passed 
us  on  the  terrace,  looked  in  for  a  moment,  and, 
seeing  that  we  were  engaged,  slowly  walked  on. 

Miss  Halcombe  began  to  read,  as  follows  : 

"  '  You  will  be  tired,  my  dear  Philip,  of  hear- 
ing perpetually  about  my  schools  and  my  schol- 
ars. Lay  the  blame,  pray,  on  the  dull  uniform- 
ity of  life  at  Limmeridge,  and  not  on  me.  Be- 
sides, this  time,  I  have  something  really  inter- 
esting to  tell  you  about  a  new  scholar. 

"  '  You  know  old  Mrs.  Kempe,  at  the  village 
shop.  Well,  after  years  of  ailing,  the  doctor 
has  at  last  given  her  up,  and  she  is  dying  slowly, 
day  by  day.  Her  only  living  relation,  a  sister, 
arrived  last  week  to  take  care  of  her.  This 
sister  comes  all  the  way  from  Hampshire — her 
name  is  Mrs.  Catherick.  Four  days  ago  Mrs. 
Catherick  came  here  to  see  me,  and  brought  her 
only  child  with  her,  a  sweet  little  girl,  about  a 
year  older  than  our  darling  Laura — '  " 

As  the  last  sentence  fell  from  the  reader's 


26 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


lips,  Miss  Fairlie  passed  us  on  the  terrace  once 
more.  8he  was  softly  singinpj  to  herself  one  of 
the  melodies  which  she  had  been  playing  earlier 
in  the  evening.  j\Iiss  Halcombe  waited  till  she 
had  passed  out  of  sight  again,  and  then  went 
on  with  the  letter : 

"  '  Mrs.  Catherick  is  a  decent,  M'ell-hehaved, 
respectable  woman  ;  middle  aged,  and  with  the 
remains  of  having  been  moderately,  only  mod- 
erately, nice-looking.  There  is  smoething  in 
her  manner  and  her  appearance,  howevei',  which 
I  can't  make  out.  She  is  reserved  about  her- 
self to  the  point  of  downright  secrecy  ;  and  there 
is  a  look  in  her  face — I  can't  describe  it — which 
suggests  to  me  that  she  has  something  on  her 
mind.  She  is  altogether  what  you  would  call  a 
walking  mystery.  Her  errand  at  Limmeridge 
House,  however,  was  simple  enough.  When 
she  left  Hampshire  to  nurse  her  sister,  Mrs. 
Kempe,  thi'ough  her  last  illness,  she  had  been 
obliged  to  bring  her  daughter  with  her,  through 
having  no  one  at  home  to  take  care  of  the  little 
girl.  Mrs.  Kempe  may  die  in  a  week's  time, 
or  may  linger  on  for  months  ;  and  j\Irs.  Cathe- 
rick's  object  was  to  ask  me  to  let  her  daughter, 
Anne,  have  the  benefit  of  attending  my  school ; 
subject  to  the  condition  of  her  being  removed 
from  it  to  go  home  again  with  her  mother,  after 
Mrs.  Kempe's  death.  I  consented  at  once  ;  and 
when  Laura  and  I  went  out  for  our  walk,  we 
took  the  little  girl  (who  is  just  eleven  years  old) 
to  the  school,  that  very  day.'  " 

Once  more.  Miss  Fairlie's  figure,  bright  and 
soft  in  its  snowy  muslin  dress — her  face  prettily 
framed  by  the  white  folds  of  the  handkerchief 
which  she  had  tied  under  her  chin — passed  by 
us  in  the  moonlight.  Once  more.  Miss  Hal- 
combe waited  till  she  was  out  of  sight ;  and  then 
went  on : 

"'I  have  taken  a  violent  fancy,  Philip,  to 
my  new  scholar,  for  a  reason  which  I  mean  to 
keep  till  the  last  for  the  sake  of  surprising  you. 
Her  mother  having  told  me  as  little  about  the 
child  as  she  told  me  of  herself,  I  was  left  to 
discover  (which  I  did  on  the  first  day  when  we 
tried  her  at  lessons)  that  the  poor  little  thing's 
intellect  is  not  developed  as  it  ought  to  be  at 
her  age.  Seeing  this,  I  had  her  up  to  the  house 
the  next  day,  and  privately  arranged  with  the 
doctor  to  come  and  watch  her  and  question  her, 
and  tell  me  what  he  thought.  His  opinion  is 
that  she  will  grow  out  of  it.  But  he  says  her 
careful  bringing  up  at  school  is  a  matter  of 
great  importance  just  now,  because  her  unusual 
slowness  in  acquiring  ideas  implies  an  unusual 
tenacity  in  keeping  tliem  when  they  are  once 
received  into  her  mind.  Now,  my  love,  you 
must  not  imagine,  in  your  ofF-hand  way,  that  I 
have  been  attaching  myself  to  an  idiot.  This 
poor  little  Anne  Catherick  is  a  sweet,  affection- 
ate, grateful  girl,  and  says  the  quaintest,  pretti- 
est things  (as  you  shall  judge  by  an  instance) 
in  the  most  oddly  sudden,  surprised,  half-friglit- 
ened  way.  Although  she  is  dressed  very  neat- 
ly, her  clothes  show  a  sad  want  of  taste  in  color 
and  pattern.  So  I  arranged,  yesterday,  that 
some  of  our  darling  Laura's  old  white  frocks 
and  white  hats  should  lie  altered  for  Anne  Cath- 
erick, explaining  to  her  tliat  little  girls  of  her 
complexion  looked  neater  and  better  all  in  white 


than  in  any  thing  else.  She  hesitated  and  seem- 
ed puzzled  for  a  minute,  then  flushed  up,  and 
appeared  to  understand.  Her  little  hand  clasp- 
ed mine  suddenly.  She  kissed  it,  Philip,  and 
said  (oh,  so  earnestly!),  "I  will  always  wear 
white  as  long  as  I  live.  It  will  help  me  to  re- 
member you,  ma'am,  and  to  think  that  I  am 
pleasing  you  still,  when  I  go  away  and  see  you 
no  more."  This  is  only  one  specimen  of  the 
quaint  things  she  says  so  prettily.  Poor  little 
soul!  She  shall  have  a  stock  of  white  frocks, 
made  with  good  deep  tucks,  to  let  out  for  her 
as  she  grows — '  " 

Miss  Halcombe  joaused,  and  looked  at  me 
across  the  piano. 

"  Did  the  forlorn  Moman  whom  you  met  in  the 
high-road  seem  young?"  she  asked.  "Young 
enough  to  be  two  or  three-and-twenty?" 

"Yes,  Miss  Halcombe,  as  young  as  that." 

"And  she  was  strangely  dressed,  from  head 
to  foot,  all  in  white  ?" 

"All  in  white." 

While  the  answer  was  passing  my  lips  Miss 
Fairlie  glided  into  view^  on  the  terrace  for  the 
third  time.  Instead  of  proceeding  on  her  walk, 
she  stopped,  with  her  back  turned  toward  us, 
and,  leaning  on  the  balustrade  of  the  terrace, 
looked  down  into  the  garden  beyond.  IMy  eyes 
fixed  upon  the  white  gleam  of  her  muslin  gown 
and  head-dress  in  the  moonlight,  and  a  sensa- 
tion, for  which  I  can  find  no  name — a  sensa- 
tion that  quickened  my  pulse  and  raised  a  flut- 
tering at  my  heart — began  to  steal  over  me. 

"All  in  white!"  Miss  Halcombe  repeated. 
"  The  most  important  sentences  in  the  letter, 
]\Ir.  Hartright,  are  those  at  the  end,  wliich  I 
will  read  to  you  immediately.  But  I  can't  help 
dwelling  a  little  upon  the  coincidence  of  the 
white  costume  of  the  M'oman  you  met,  and  the 
white  frocks  which  produced  that  strange  an- 
swer from  my  mother's  little  scholar.  The  doc- 
tor may  have  been  wrong  when  he  discovered 
the  child's  defects  of  intellect,  and  predicted 
that  she  would  'grow  out  of  them.'  She  may 
never  have  grown  out  of  them ;  and  the  old 
grateful  fancj'  about  dressing  in  white,  which 
was  a  serious  feeling  to  the  girl,  may  be  a  seri- 
ous feeling  to  the  woman  still." 

I  said  a  few  words  in  answer — I  hardly  know 
what.  All  my  attention  was  concentrated  on 
the  white  gleam  of  Miss  Fairlie's  muslin  dress. 

"Listen  to  the  last  sentences  of  the  letter," 
said  Miss  Halcombe.  "I  think  they  will  sur- 
prise you." 

As  she  raised  the  letter  to  the  light  of  the 
candle.  Miss  Fairlie  turned  from  the  balustrade, 
looked  doubtfully  up  and  down  the  terrace,  ad- 
vanced a  step  toward  the  glass  doors,  and  then 
stopped,  facing  us. 

Meanwhile,  Miss  Halcombe  read  me  the  last 
sentences  to  which  she  had  referred : 

"  '  And  now,  my  love,  seeing  that  I  am  at  the 
end  of  my  ])a])er,  now  for  the  real  reason,  the 
surprising  reason,  for  my  fondness  for  little 
Anne  Catherick.  My  dear  Phili]),  altliough  she 
is  not  half  so  pretty,  -she  is,  nevertheless,  by  one 
of  those  extraordinary  caprices  of  accidental  re- 
semblance which  one  sometimes  sees,  the  liv- 
ing likeness,  in  her  hair,  her  complexion,  the  col- 
or of  her  eyes,  and  tlie  shajie  of  her  fiice — '  " 

I  started  up  from  the  ottoman  before  Miss 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


27 


Halcombe  could  pronouiice  the  next  words.  A 
thrill  of  the  same  feeling  which  ran  through  me 
when  the  touch  was  laid  upon  my  shoulder  on 
the  lonely  high-road,  chilled  me  again. 

There  stood  Miss  Fairlie,  a  white  figure,  alone 
in  the  moonlight ;  in  her  attitude,  in  the  turn 
of  her  head,  in  her  complexion,  in  the  sliape 
of  her  face,  the  living  image,  at  that  distance 
and  under  those  circumstances,  of  the  woman 
in  white!  The  doubt  which  had  troubled  my 
mind  for  houi's  and  hours  past  flashed  into  con- 
viction in  an  instant.  That  "  something  want- 
inw"  was  my  own  recognition  of  the  ominous 
likeness  between  the  fugitive  from  the  asylum 
and  the  heiress  of  Limmeridge  House. 

"You  see  it!"  said  Miss" Halcombe.  She 
dropped  the  useless  letter,  and  her  eyes  flashed 
as  they  met  mine.  "You  see  it  now,  as  my 
mother  saw  it  eleven  years  since !" 

"I  see  it — more  unwillingly  than  I  can  say. 
To  associate  that  forlorn,  friendless,  lost  wo- 
man, even  by  an  accidental  likeness  only,  with 
Miss  Fairlie,  seems  like  casting  a  shadow  on  the 
future  of  the  bright  creature  who  stands  looking 
at  us  now.  Let  me  lose  the  impression  again, 
as  soon  as  possible.  Call  her  in,  out  of  the 
dreary  moonlight — pray  call  her  in !" 

"Mr.  Hartright,  you  surprise  me.  Wliatever 
women  may  be,  I  thought  tliat  men,  in  the  nine- 
teentli  century,  were  above  superstition." 

"Pray  call  her  in!" 

"Hush,  hush!  She  is  coming  of  her  own 
accord.  Say  nothing  in  her  presence.  Let  tliis 
discovery  of  the  likeness  be  kept  a  secret  be- 
tween you  and  me.  Come  in,  Laura ;  come  in, 
and  wake  Mrs.  Vesey  with  the  piano.  JMr. 
Hartright  is  petitioning  for  some  more  music, 
and  he  wants  it,  this  time,  of  the  lightest  and 
liveliest  kind." 

vin. 

So  ended  my  eventful  first  day  at  Limmeridge 
House. 

Miss  Halcombe  and  I  kept  our  secret.  After 
the  discovery  of  the  likeness  no  fresh  light 
seemed  destined  to  break  over  the  mystery  of 
the  woman  in  white.  At  the  first  safe  oppor- 
tunity Miss  Halcombe  cautiously  led  her  half- 
sister  to  speak  of  their  mother,  of  old  times,  and 
of  Anne  Catherick.  Miss  Fairlie's  recollections 
of  the  little  scholar  at  Limmeridge  were,  how- 
ever, only  of  the  most  vague  and  general  kind. 
She  remembered  the  likeness  between  herself 
and  her  mother's  favorite  pupil,  as  something 
which  had  been  supposed  to  exist  in  past  times; 
but  she  did  not  refer  to  the  gift  of  the  white 
dresses,  or  to  the  singular  form  of  Avords  in 
which  the  child  had  artlessly  expressed  her 
gratitude  for  them.  She  remembered  that  Anne 
had  remained  at  Limmeridge  for  a  few  months 
only,  and  had  then  left  it  to  go  back  to  her 
home  in  Hampshire ;  but  she  could  not  say 
whether  the  mother  and  daughter  had  ever  re- 
turned, or  had  ever  been  heard  of  afterward. 
No  further  search,  on  Miss  Halcombe's  part, 
tlirough  the  few  letters  of  Mrs.  Fairlie's  writing 
which  she  had  left  unread,  assisted  in  clearing 
up  the  imcertainties  still  left  to  perplex  us. 
We  had  identified  the  unhappy  woman  whom  I 
had  met  in  the  night-time  with  Anne  Catherick 
— we  had  made  some  advance,  at  least,  toward 
connecting  the  probably  defective  condition  of 


the  poor  creature's  intellect  with  the  peculiarity 
of  her  being  dressed  all  in  white,  and  with  the 
continuance,  in  her  maturer  years,  of  her  child- 
ish gratitude  toward  IVIrs.  Fairlie — and  there, 
so  far  as  we  knew  at  that  time,  our  discoveries 
had  ended. 

The  days  passed  on,  the  weeks  passed  on: 
and  the  track  of  the  golden  autumn  wound  its 
bright  way  visibly  through  the  green  summer  of 
the  trees.  Peaceful,  fast-flowing,  happy  time ! 
my  story  glides  by  you  now  as  swiftly  as  you 
once  glided  by  me.  Of  all  the  treasures  of  en- 
joyment that  you  poured  so  freely  into  my  heart, 
how  much  is  left  me  that  has  purpose  and  value 
enough  to  be  written  on  this  page?  Nothing 
but  the  saddest  of  all  confessions  that  a  man 
can  make — the  confession  of  his  own  folly. 

The  secret  which  that  confession  discloses 
should  be  told  witli  little  eftbrt,  for  it  has  indi- 
rectly escaped  me  already.  The  poor  weak 
words  which  have  failed  to  describe  Miss  Fairlie, 
have  succeeded  in  betraying  the  sensations  she 
awakened  in  me.  It  is  so  with  us  ail.  Our 
words  are  giants  when  they  do  us  an  injury,  and 
dwarfs  when  they  do  us  a  service. 

I  loved  her. 

Ah !  how  well  I  know  all  the  sadness  and  all 
the  mockery  that  is  contained  in  those  three 
words.  I  can  sigh  over  my  mournful  confession 
with  the  tenderest  woman  who  reads  it  and  jiities 
me.  I  can  laugh  at  it  as  bitterly  as  the  hardest 
man  who  tosses  it  from  him  in  contempt.  I 
loved  her !  Feel  for  me,  or  desjiise  me,  I  con- 
fess it  with  the  same  immovable  resolution  to 
own  the  truth. 

Was  there  no  excuse  for  me?  There  was 
some  excuse  to  be  found,  surely,  in  the  condi- 
tions under  which  my  term  of  hired  service  was 
passed  at  Limmeridge  House. 

My  morning  hours  succeeded  each  other 
calmly  in  the  quiet  and  seclusion  of  my  own 
room.  I  had  just  work  enough  to  do,  in  mount- 
ing my  employer's  drawings,  to  keep  my  hands 
and  eyes  pleasurably  employed,  while  my  mind 
was  left  free  to  enjoy  the  dangerous  luxury  of 
its  own  unbridled  thoughts.  A  perilous  solitude, 
for  it  lasted  long  enough  to  enen-ate,  not  long 
enough  to  fortify  me.  A  perilous  solitude,  for  it 
was  followed  by  afternoons  and  evenings  spent, 
day  after  day  and  week  after  week,  alone  in  the 
society  of  two  women,  one  of  whom  possessed 
all  the  accomplishments  of  grace,  wit,  and  high- 
breeding,  the  other  all  the  chai'ms  of  beauty, 
gentleness,  and  simple  truth,  that  can  purify  and 
subdue  the  heart  of  man.  Not  a  day  passed,  in 
that  dangerous  intimacy  of  teacher  and  pu])il,  in 
which  my  hand  was  not  close  to  Miss  Fairlie's; 
my  cheek,  as  we  bent  together  over  her  sketch- 
book, almost  touching  hers.  The  more  atten- 
tively she  watched  every  movement  of  my  brush, 
the  more  closely  I  was  breathing  the  perfume  of 
her  hair,  and  the  warm  fragrance  of  her  breath. 
It  was  part  of  my  service  to  live  in  the  very 
light  of  her  eyes — at  one  time  to  be  bending 
over  her,  so  close  to  her  bosom  as  to  tremble  at 
the  thought  of  touching  it ;  at  another,  to  feel 
her  bending  over  me,  bending  so  close  to  see 
wliat  I  was  about,  that  her  voice  sank  low  when 
she  spoke  to  me,  and  her  ribbons  brushed  my 
cheek  in  the  wind  before  she  could  draw  them 
back. 


28 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


The  evenings  which  followed  the  sketching 
excursions  of  the  afternoon  varied,  rather  than 
checked,  these  innocent,  these  inevitable  famil- 
iarities. My  natural  fondness  for  the  music 
which  she  played  with  such  tender  feeling,  such 
delicate  womanly  taste,  and  her  natural  enjoy- 
^ment  of  giving  me  back,  by  the  practice  of  her 
art,  the  jileasure  which  I  had  offered  to  her  by 
the  practice  of  mine,  only  wove  another  tie  which 
drew  us  closer  and  closer  to  one  another.  The 
accidents  of  conversation  ;  the  simple  habits 
which  regulated  even  such  a  little  thing  as  the 
position  of  our  places  at  table  ;  the  play  of  JMiss 
Halcombe's  ever-ready  raillery,  always  directed 
against  my  anxiety,  as  teacher,  while  it  sparkled 
over  her  enthusiasm  as  pupil;  the  harmless  ex- 
pression of  poor  Mrs.  Vesey's  drowsy  approval 
which  connected  Miss  Fairlie  and  me  as  two 
model  young  people  who  never  disturbed  her — 
every  one  of  these  trifles,  and  many  more,  com- 
bined to  fold  us  together  in  the  same  domestic 
atmosphere,  and  to  lead  us  both  insensibly  to 
the  same  hopeless  end. 

I  should  have  remembered  my  position,  and 
have  put  myself  secretly  on  my  guard.  I  did 
so,  but  not  till  it  was  too  late.  AH  tlie  discre- 
tion, all  the  experience,  which  had  availed  me 
with  other  women,  and  secured  me  against  oth- 
er tem]>tations,  failed  me  with  her.  It  had  been 
my  profession,  for  years  past,  to  l)e  in  tiiis  close 
contact  with  young  girls  of  all  ages,  and  of  all 
orders  of  beauty.  I  had  accepted  the  jiosition 
as  part  of  my  calling  in  life ;  I  had  trained  my- 


self to  leave  all  the  sympathies  natural  to  my 
age  in  my  employer's  outer  hall,  as  coolly  as  I 
left  my  umbrella  there  before  I  went  up  stairs. 
I  had  long  since  learned  to  understand,  com- 
posedly and  as  a  matter  of  course,  that  my  situ- 
ation in  life  was  considered  a  guarantee  against 
any  of  my  female  pupils  feeling  more  than  the 
most  ordinary  interest  in  me,  and  that  I  was  ad- 
mitted among  beautiful  and  captivating  women 
much  as  a  harmless  domestic  animal  is  admit- 
ted among  them.  This  guardian  experience  I 
had  gained  early ;  this  guardian  experience  had 
sternly  and  strictly  guided  me  straight  along 
my  own  poor  narrow  path,  without  once  letting 
me  stray  aside  to  the  right  hand  or  to  the  left. 
And  now  I  and  my  trusty  talisman  were  parted 
for  the  first  time.  Yes,  my  hardly-earned  self- 
control  was  as  completely  lost  to  me  as  if  I  had 
never  possessed  it ;  lost  to  me,  as  it  is  lost  every 
day  to  other  men  in  other  critical  situations 
where  women  are  concerned.  I  know  now  that 
I  should  have  questioned  myself  from  the  first. 
I  should  have  asked  wliy  any  room  in  the  house 
was  better  than  home  to  me  when  she  entered 
it,  and  barren  as  a  desert  Mhen  she  went  out 
again — why  I  always  noticed  and  remembered 
the  little  changes  in  her  dress  that  I  had  noticed 
and  remembered  in  no  other  woman's  before — 
why  I  saw  her,  heard  her,  and  touched  lier(when 
we  shook  hands  at  night  and  morning)  as  I  had 
never  seen,  heard,  and  touched  any  other  wo- 
man in  my  life  ?  I  sliould  have  looked  into  my 
own  heart,  and  found  this  new  growth  springing 
up  there,  and  plucked  it  out  while  it  was  young. 
Why  was  this  easiest,  simplest  work  of  self-cul- 
ture always  too  much  for  me  ?  The  explana- 
tion has  been  written  already  in  the  three  words 
that  were  many  enough,  and  jjlain  enough,  for 
my  confession.     I  loved  her. 

The  days  passed,  the  weeks  passed ;  it  was 
approaching  the  third  month  of  my  stay  in  Cum- 
berland. The  delicious  monotony  of  life  in  our 
calm  seclusion  flowed  on  with  me  like  a  smooth 
stream  with  a  swimmer  who  glides  down  the 
current.  All  memory  of  the  past,  all  thought 
of  the  future,  all  sense  of  the  falseness  and  hope- 
lessness of  my  own  position,  lay  hushed  within 
me  into  deceitful  rest.  Lulled  by  the  siren  song 
that  my  own  heart  sung  to  me,  with  eyes  shut  to 
all  sight,  and  ears  closed  to  all  sound  of  danger,  I 
drifted  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  fatal  rocks.  The 
warning  that  aroused  me  at  last,  and  startled 
me  into  sudden,  self-accusing  consciousness  of 
my  own  weakness,  was  the  plainest,  the  truest, 
the  kindest  of  all  warnings,  for  it  came  silently 
from  her. 

We  had  parted  one  night,  as  usual.  No 
word  had  fallen  from  my  lips,  at  that  time  or  at 
any  time  before  it,  tliat  could  betray  me,  or  star- 
tle her  into  sudden  knowledge  of  the  ti'uth.  But 
when  we  met  again  in  the  morning,  a  change 
had  come  over  her — a  change  that  told  me  all. 

I  shrank  then — I  shrink  still — from  invading 
the  innermost  sanctuary  of  her  heart,  and  lay- 
ing it  open  to  others,  as  I  have  laid  ojien  my 
own.  Let  it  be  enough  to  say  that  the  time 
when  she  first  surprised  my  secret  was,  I  firmh- 
believe,  the  time  when  she  first  surjn-ised  her 
own,  and  the  time,  also,  wlicn  she  changed  to- 
ward me  in  the  interval  of  one  night.  Her 
nature,  too  truthful  to  deceive  others,  was  too 
noble  to  deceive  itself.     When  the  doubt  that  I 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


29 


had  hushed  asleep  first  laid  its  weary  weifcht  on 
her  heart,  the  true  face  owned  all,  and  said,  in 
its  own  frank,  simple  language — I  am  sony  for 
him ;  I  am  sorry  for  myself. 

It  said  this,  and  more,  which  I  could  not  then 
interpret.  I  understood  but  too  well  the  change 
in  her  manner,  to  greater  kindness  and  quicker 
readiness  in  interpreting  all  my  wishes,  before 
others — to  constraint  and  sadness,  and  nervous 
anxiety  to  absorb  herself  in  the  first  occupation 
she  could  seize  on,  whenever  we  happened  to 
be  left  together  alone.  I  understood  why  the 
sweet  sensitive  lips  smiled  so  rarely  and  so  re- 
strainedly  now ;  and  why  the  clear  blue  eyes 
looked  at  me,  sometimes  with  the  pity  of  an 
angel,  sometimes  with  the  innocent  perplexity 
of  a  child.  But  the  change  meant  more  than 
this.  There  was  a  coldness  in  her  hand,  there 
was  an  unnatural  immobility  in  her  face,  there 
was  in  all  her  movements  the  mute  expression 
of  constant  fear  and  clinging  self-reproach.  The 
sensations  that  I  could  trace  to  herself  and  to 
me,  the  unacknowledged  sensations  that  we 
were  feeling  in  common,  were  not  these.  There 
were  certain  elements  of  the  change  in  her  that 
were  still  secretly  drawing  us  together,  and  oth- 
ers that  were  as  secretly  beginning  to  drive  us 
apart. 

In  my  doubt  and  perplexity,  in  my  vague 
suspicion  of  something  hidden  which  I  was  left 
to  find  by  my  own  unaided  efforts,  I  examined 
Miss  Halcombe's  looks  and  manner  for  enlight- 
enment. Living  in  such  intimacy  as  ours,  no 
serious  alteration  could  take  place  in  any  one 
of  us  which  did  not  sympathetically  afl'ect  the 
others.  The  change  in  JMiss  Fairlie  was  re- 
flected in  her  half-sister.  Altliough  not  a  word 
escaped  Miss  Halcombe  which  hinted  at  an  al- 
tered state  of  feeling  toward  myself,  her  pene- 
trating eyes  had  contracted  a  new  habit  of 
always  watching  me.  Sometimes  the  look  was 
like  suppressed  anger ;  sometimes  like  sup- 
pressed dread ;  sometimes  like  neither — like  no- 
thing, in  short,  which  I  could  understand.  A 
week  elajjsed,  leaving  us  all  three  still  in  this  po- 
sition of  secret  constraint  toward  one  another. 
My  situation,  aggravated  by  the  sense  of  my  own 
miserable  weakness  and  forgetfulness  of  myself, 
now  too  late  awakened  in  me,  was  becoming  in- 
tolerable. I  felt  that  I  must  cast  off  the  op- 
pression under  which  I  was  living,  at  once  and 
forever — yet  how  to  act  for  the  best,  or  what  to 
say  first,  was  more  than  I  could  tell. 

From  this  position  of  helplessness  and  humil- 
iation I  was  rescued  by  Miss  Halcombe.  Her 
lips  told  me  the  bitter,  the  necessary,  the  unex- 
pected truth  ;  her  hearty  kindness  sustained  me 
under  the  shock  of  hearing  it;  her  sense  and 
courage  turned  to  its  right  use  an  event  which 
tlireatened  the  worst  that  could  happen,  to  me 
and  to  others,  in  Limmeridge  House. 

IX. 

It  was  on  a  Thursday  in  the  week,  and  near- 
ly at  the  end  of  the  third  month  of  my  sojourn 
in  Cumberland. 

In  the  morning,  when  I  went  down  into  the 
breakfast-room  at  the  usual  hour.  Miss  Hal- 
combe, for  the  first  time  since  I  had  known  her, 
was  absent  from  her  customary  place  at  the  table. 

iMiss  Fairlie  was  out  on  the  lawn.  She  bowed 
to  me,  but  did  not  come  in.     Not  a  word  had 


dropped  from  my  lips  or  from  hers  that  could  un- 
settle either  of  us — iind  yet  the  same  unacknowl- 
edged sense  of  embarrassment  made  us  shrink 
alike  from  meeting  one  another  alone.  She  wait- 
ed on  the  lawn ;  and  I  waited  in  tbe  breakfast- 
room,  till  JNIrs.  Vesey  or  Miss  Halcombe  came 
in.  How  quickly  I  should  have  joined  her;  how 
readily  we  should  have  shaken  hands,  and  glided 
into  our  customary  talk,  only  a  fortnight  ago! 

In  a  few  minutes  Miss  Halcombe  entered. 
She  had  a  preoccuj)ied  look,  and  she  made  her 
apologies  for  being  late,  rather  absently. 

"  I  have  been  detained,"  she  said,  "  by  a  con- 
sultation with  Mr.  Fairlie  on  a  domestic  matter 
which  he  wished  to  speak  to  me  about." 

Miss  Fairlie  came  in  from  the  garden ;  and 
the  usual  morning  greeting  passed  between  us. 
Her  hand  struck  colder  to  mine  than  ever.  She 
did  not  look  at  me ;  and  she  was  very  pale. 
Even  Mrs.  Vesey  noticed  it,  when  she  entei-ed 
the  room  a  moment  after. 

"I  suppose  it's  the  change  in  the  wind,"  said 
the  old  lady.  "The  winter  is  coming — ah,  my 
love,  the  winter  is  coming  soon  !" 

In  her  heart  and  in  mine  it  had  come  already ! 

Our  morning  meal — once  so  full  of  pleasant 
good-humored  discussions  of  the  plans  for  the 
day — was  short  and  silent.  Miss  Fairlie  seemed 
to  feel  the  oppression  of  the  long  pauses  in  the 
conversation;  and  looked  appealingly  to  her 
sister  to  fill  them  up.  Miss  Halcombe,  after 
once  or  twice  hesitating  and  checking  herself, 
in  a  most  uncharacteristic  manner,  spoke  at  last. 

"I  have  seen  vour  uncle  this  mornintr,  Laura," 
she  said.  "He  thinks  the  purple  room  is  the 
one  that  ought  to  be  got  ready  ;  and  he  confirms 
what  I  told  you.  Monday  is  the  day  —  not 
Tuesday." 

While  these  words  were  being  spoken.  Miss 
Fairlie  looked  down  at  the  table  beneath  her. 
Her  fingers  moved  nervously  among  the  crumbs 
that  wete  scattered  on  the  cloth.  The  paleness 
on  her  cheeks  sjjread  to  her  lips,  and  the  lips 
themselves  trembled  visibly.  I  was  not  the  only 
person  present  who  noticed  this.  Miss  Hal- 
combe saw  it  too,  and  at  once  set  us  the  exam- 
ple of  rising  from  table. 

Mrs.  Vesey  and  IMiss  Fairlie  left  the  room 
together.  The  kind  sorrowful  blue  eyes  looked 
at  me  for  a  moment  with  the  prescient  sad- 
ness of  a  coming  and  a  long  farewell.  I  felt 
the  answering  pang  in  my  own  heart — the  pang 
that  told  me  I  must  lose  her  soon,  and  love  her 
the  more  uncliangeably  for  the  loss. 

I  tui'ned  toward  the  garden,  when  the  door 
had  closed  on  her.  JNIiss  Halcombe  was  stand- 
ing with  her  hat  in  her  hand,  and  her  shawl 
over  her  arm,  by  the  large  window  that  led  out 
to  the  lawn,  and  was  looking  at  me  attentively. 

"Have  you  any  leisure  time  to  spai-e,"  she 
asked,  "before  you  begin  to  work  in  your  own 
room?" 

"  Certainly,  Miss  Halcombe.  I  have  always 
time  at  your  service." 

"I  want  to  say  a  word  to  you  in  private,  Mr. 
Hartright.  Get  your  hat,  and  come  out  into 
the  garden.  We  are  not  likely  to  be  disturbed 
there  at  this  hour  in  the  morning." 

As  we  stepped  out  on  to  the  lawn,  one  of  the 
under-gardeners — a  mere  lad — passed  us  on  his 
way  to  the  house,  with  a  letter  in  his  hand. 
Miss  Halcombe  stopi>ed  him. 


^ 


30 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


"  Is  that  letter  for  me  ?"  she  asked. 

"  Nay,  miss ;  it's  just  said  to  be  for  Miss  Fair- 
lie,"  answered  the  lad,  holding  out  the  letter  as 
he  spoke. 

Miss  Halcombe  took  it  from  him,  and  looked 
at  the  address. 

"A  strange  handwriting,"  she  said  to  herself. 
"Who  can  Laui-a's  correspondent  be?  Where 
did  you  get  this  ?"  she  continued,  addressing  the 
gardener. 

"Well,  miss,"  said  the  lad,  "I  just  got  it  from 
a  woman." 

"What  woman?" 

"  A  woman  well  stricken  in  age." 

"  Oh,  an  old  woman.     Any  one  you  knew?" 

"  I  canna'  tak'  it  on  mysel'  to  say  that  she  was 
other  than  a  stranger  to  me." 

"Which  way  did  she  go  ?" 

"That  gate,"  said  the  under-gardener,  turn- 
ing with  great  deliberation  toward  the  south, 
and  embracing  the  whole  of  that  part  of  En- 
gland with  one  comprehensive  sweep  of  his  arm. 

"  Curious,"  said  Miss  Halcombe ;  "  I  su])pose 
it  must  be  a  begging-letter.  There,"  she  added, 
handing  the  letter  back  to  the  lad,  "  take  it  to 
the  house,  and  give  it  to  one  of  the  servants. 
And  now,  Mr.  Hartright,  if  you  have  no  objec- 
tion, let  us  walk  this  way." 

She  led  me  across  the  lawn,  along  the  same 
path  by  wliich  I  had  followed  her  on  the  day 
after  my  arrival  at  Limmeridge.  At  the  little 
Kummei'-house  in  whicli  Laura  Fairlie  and  I  had 
first  seen  each  other,  she  stopped,  and  broke  the 
silence  which  she  had  steadily  maintained  while 
we  were  walking  together. 

"What  I  have  to  say  to  you  I  can  say  here." 

With  those  words  she  entered  the  summer- 
house,  took  one  of  the  chairs  at  the  little  round 
table  inside,  and  signed  to  me  to  take  the  other. 
I  had  suspected  what  was  coming  when  she 
spoke  to  me  in  the  breakfast-room  ;  I  felt  cer- 
tain of  it  now. 

"Mr.  Hartright,"  she  said,  "I  am  going  to 
begin  by  making  a  frank  avowal  to  you.  I  am 
going  to  say — without  j)hrase-making,  which  I 
detest ;  or  paying  compliments,  which  I  heart- 
ily despise — that  I  have  come,  in  the  course  of 
your  residence  with  us,  to  feel  a  strong  friendly 
regard  for  you.  I  was  predisposed  in  your  favor 
when  you  first  told  me  of  your  conduct  toward 
that  unhappy  woman  whom  you  met  ttnder  such 
remarkable  circumstances.  Your  management 
of  the  affair  might  not  have  been  prudent ;  but 
it  showed  the  self-control,  the  delicacy,  and  the 
compassion  of  a  man  who  was  naturally  a  gen- 
tleman. It  made  me  expect  good  things  from 
you ;  and  you  have  not  disappointed  my  ex- 
pectations." 

She  paused — but  held  up  her  hand  at  the 
same  time,  as  a  sign  that  she  awaited  no  answer 
from  me  before  she  proceeded.  When  I  entered 
the  summer-house,  no  thought  was  in  me  of  the 
woman  in  wliite.  But  now  Miss  Halcombe's 
own  words  had  jnit  tlie  memory  of  my  adventure 
back  in  my  mind.  It  remained  tliere,  through- 
out the  interview — remained,  and  not  without 
a  result. 

"As  your  friend,"  she  proceeded,  "I  am  go- 
ing to  tell  you  at  once,  in  my  own  plain,  blunt, 
downright  language,  that  I  have  discovered 
your  secret — witliont  hel])  or  liint,  mind,  from 
any  one  else.   Mr,  llartriglit,  you  have  thought- 


lessly allowed  yourself  to  form  an  attachment 
— a  serious  and  devoted  attachment,  I  am  afraid 
— to  my  sister  Laura.  I  don't  put  you  to  the 
pain  of  confessing  it,  in  so  many  words,  because 
I  see  and  know  that  you  are  too  honest  to  deny 
it.  I  don't  even  blame  you — I  pity  j'ou  for  o])en- 
ing  your  heart  to  a  hopeless  affection.  You  have 
not  attempted  to  take  any  underhand  advantage 
— you  have  not  spoken  to  my  sister  in  secret. 
You  are  guilty  of  weakness  and  want  of  atten- 
tion to  your  own  best  interests,  but  of  nothing 
worse.  If  you  had  acted,  in  any  single  resjiect, 
less  delicately  and  less  modestly,  I  should  have 
told  you  to  leave  the  house,  without  an  instant's 
notice  or  an  instant's  consultation  of  any  body. 
As  it  is,  I  blame  the  misfortune  of  your  years 
and  your  position — I  don't  blame  you.  Shake 
liands — I  have  given  you  pain ;  I  am  going  to 
give  you  more ;  but  there  is  no  help  for  it — 
shake  hands  with  your  friend,  Marian  Hal- 
combe, first." 

The  sudden  kindness — the  wann,  high-mind- 
ed, fearless  sympathy  which  met  me  on  such 
mercifully  equal  terms,  which  appealed  with 
such  delicate  and  generous  abruptness  straight 
to  my  heart,  my  honor,  and  my  courage,  over- 
came me  in  an  instant.  I  tried  to  look  at  her 
when  she  took  my  hand,  but  ni}'  ej'es  were  dim. 
I  tried  to  thank  her,  but  my  voice  failed  me. 

"  Listen  to  me,"  she  said,  considerately  avoid- 
ing all  notice  of  my  loss  of  self-control.  "Listen 
to  me,  and  let  us  get  it  over  at  once.  It  is  a 
real,  true  relief  to  me  that  1  am  not  obliged,  in 
what  I  have  now  to  say,  to  enter  into  the  ques- 
tion— the  hard  and  cruel  question  as  I  think  it 
— of  social  inequalities.  Circumstances  M'hich 
will  try  yoii  to  the  quick,  spare  me  the  ungra- 
cious necessity  of  paining  a  man  who  has  lived 
in  friendly  intimacy  under  the  same  roof  with 
myself  by  any  Inimiliating  reference  to  mattere 
of  rank  and  station.  You  must  leave  Limmer- 
idge House,  Mr.  Harti-ight,  before  more  harm 
is  done.  It  is  my  duty  to  say  that  to  you ;  and 
it  would  be  equally  my  duty  to  say  it,  under 
precisely  the  same  serious  necessity,  if  you  were 
the  rejiresentative  of  the  oldest  and  wealthiest 
family  in  England.  You  must  leave  us,  not  be- 
cause you  are  a  teacher  of  drawing — " 

She  waited  a  moment,  turned  her  face  full 
on  me,  and,  reaching  across  the  table,  laid  her 
hand  firmly  on  my  arm. 

"Not  because  you  are  a  teacher  of  drawing," 
she  repeated,  "  but  because  Laura  Eairlie  is  en- 
gaged to  be  married." 

The  last  word  went  like  a  bullet  to  my  heart. 
My  arm  lost  all  sensation  of  the  lumd  that 
grasped  it.  I  never  moved,  and  never  sjiokc. 
The  sharp  autumn  breeze  that  scattered  tlie 
dead  leaves  At  our  feet  came  as  cold  to  me,  on 
a  sudden,  as  if  my  own  mad  hopes  were  dead 
leaves,  too,  whirled  away  by  the  wind  like  the 
rest.  Hojies  !  Betrothed,  or  not  betrotlied,  she 
was  equally  far  from  ?«e.  Would  other  men 
have  remembered  that  in  my  place  ?  Not  if 
they  had  loved  her  as  I  did. 

The  pang  passed ;  and  nothing  but  the  dull 
numbing  pain  of  it  remained.  I  felt  Miss  Hal- 
combe's hand  again,  tightening  its  hold  on  my 
arm — I  raised  my  head,  and  looked  at  her.  Her 
large  black  eyes  were  rooted  on  mo,  watching 
the  white  change  on  my  face,  which  I  felt,  and 
which  she  saw. 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


31 


■  SHE  WAITED  A  MOMENT,  TURNED   HER   FACE   FULL   ON  ME,  AND,  REACHING  ACROSS  THE  TABLE, 

LAID   HER    HAND   FIRMLY   ON   MY    ARM." 


"Crush  it!"  she  sjvid.  "Here,  where  you 
first  saw  her,  crush  it !  Don't  shrink  under  it 
like  a  woman.  Tear  it  out ;  trample  it  under 
foot  like  a  man  !" 

The  suppressed  vehemence  with  which  she 
spoke;  the  strength  wliich  her  will — concen- 
trated in  the  look  she  fixed  on  me,  and  in  the 
hold  on  my  arm  that  she  had  not  yet  I'elinquish- 
ed — communicated  to  mine,  steadied  me.  We 
both  waited  for  a  minute  in  silence.  At  the 
end  of  that  time  I  had  justified  her  generous 
faith  in  my  manhood  ;  I  had,  outwardly  at  least, 
recovered  my  self-control. 

"  Are  you  yourself  again  ?" 

"Enough  myself.  Miss  Halcombe,  to  ask  your 
pardon  and  hers.  Enough  myself  to  be  guided 
by  your  advice,  and  to  prove  my  gratitude  in 
tliat  way,  if  I  can  prove  it  in  no  other." 

"You  have  proved  it  already,"  she  answered, 
"  by  those  words.  Mr.  Hartright,  concealment 
is  at  an  end  between  us.  I  can  not  aftect  to 
hide  from  you,  what  my  sister  has  unconscious- 
ly shown  to  me.  You  must  leave  us  for  her  sake, 
as  well  as  for  your  own.  Your  presence  here, 
your  necessary  intimacj^  witli  us,  harmless  as  it 
has  been,  God  knows,  in  all  other  respects,  has 


nnsteadied  her  and  made  her  wretched.  I,  who 
love  her  better  than  my  own  life — I  who  have 
learned  to  believe  in  that  pure,  noble,  innocent 
nature  as  I  believe  in  my  i-eligion — know  but 
too  well  the  secret  misery  of  self-reproach  that 
she  has  been  suffering,  since  the  first  shadow 
of  a  feeling  disloyal  to  her  marriage  engage- 
ment entered  her  heart  in  spite  of  her.  I  don't 
say — it  would  be  useless  to  attempt  to  say  it, 
after  what  has  happened — that  her  engagement 
has  ever  had  a  strong  hold  on  her  affections. 
It  is  an  engagement  of  honor,  not  of  love — her 
father  sanctioned  it  on  his  death-bed,  two  years 
since  —  she  herself  neither  welcomed  it,  nor 
shrank  from  it — she  was  content  to  make  it. 
Till  you  came  here,  she  was  in  the  position  of 
hundreds  of  other  women,  who  marry  men  with- 
out being  greatly  attracted  to  them  or  greatly 
repelled  by  them,  and  who  learn  to  love  them 
(when  they  don't  learn  to  hate  !)  after  marriage, 
instead  of  before.  I  hope  more  earnestly  than 
words  can  say — and  you  should  have  the  self- 
sacrificing  courage  to  hope  too — that  the  new 
thoughts  and  feelings  which  have  disturbed  the 
old  calmness  and  the  old  content,  have  not  tak- 
en root  too  deeply  to  be  ever  removed.     I'our 


32 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


absence  (if  I  had  less  belief  in  your  honor,  and 
your  courage,  and  your  sense,  I  should  not  trust 
to  them  as  I  am  trusting  now) — your  absence 
will  help  my  efforts ;  and  time  will  help  us  all 
three.  It  is  something  to  know  that  my  first 
confidence  in  you  was  not  all  misplaced.  It  is 
something  to  know  that  you  will  not  be  less 
honest,  less  manly,  less  considerate  toward  the 
pupil  whose  relation  to  yourself  you  have  had 
the  misfortune  to  forget,  than  toward  the  stran- 
ger and  the  outcast  whose  appeal  to  you  was 
not  made  in  vain." 

Again  the  chance  reference  to  the  woman  in 
white  !  Was  there  no  possibility  of  speaking  of 
MissFairlie  and  of  me  without  raising  the  mem- 
ory of  AnneCatherick,  and  setting  her  between 
us  like  a  fatality  that  it  was  hopeless  to  avoid? 

"Tell  me  what  apology  I  can  make  to  Mr. 
Fairlie  for  breaking  my  engagement,"  I  said. 
"  Tell  me  when  to  go  after  that  apology  is  ac- 
cepted. I  promise  implicit  obedience  to  you 
and  to  your  advice." 

"Time  is  every  way  of  importance,"  she  an- 
swered. "You  heard  me  refer  this  morning  to 
Monday  next,  and  to  the  necessity  of  setting  the 
purple  room  in  order.  The  visitor  whom  we  ex- 
'  pect  on  Monday — " 

I  could  not  wait  for  her  to  be  more  explicit- 
Knowing  what  I  knew  now,  the  memory  of  Miss 
Fairlie's  look  and  manner  at  the  breakfast-table 
told  me  that  the  expected  visitor  at  Limmeridge 
House  was  her  future  husband.  I  tried  to  force 
it  back;  but  something  rose  within  me  at  that 
moment  stronger  than  my  own  will ;  and  I  in- 
terrupted Miss  Halcombe. 

"Let  me  go  to-day,"  I  said,  bitterly.  "The 
sooner  the  better." 

"No;  not  to-day,"  she  replied.  "The  only 
reason  you  can  assign  to  Mr.  Fairlie  for  your 
departure,  before  the  end  of  your  engagement, 
must  be  that  an  unforeseen  necessity  com])els 
you  to  ask  his  permission  to  return  at  once  to 
London.  You  must  wait  till  to-morrow  to  tell 
him  that,  at  the  time  when  the  post  comes  in, 
because  he  will  then  understand  the  sudden 
change  in  your  jilans,  by  associating  it  with  the 
arrival  of  a  letter  from  London.  It  is  miserable 
and  sickening  to  descend  to  deceit,  even  of  the 
most  harmless  kind — but  I  know  Mr.  Fairlie, 
and  if  3'ou  once  excite  his  suspicions  that  you  are 
trifling  with  him,  he  will  refuse  to  release  you. 
Sjieak  to  him  on  Friday  morning ;  occupy  your- 
self afterward  (for  the  sake  of  your  own  interests 
•  with  your  employer)  in  leaving  your  unfinished 
work  in  as  little  confusion  as  possible ;  and  quit 
this  place  on  Saturday.  It  will  be  time  enough 
then,  I\Ir.  Hartright,  for  you,  and  for  all  of  ns." 

Before  I  could  assure  her  that  she  might  de- 
pend on  my  acting  in  the  strictest  accordance 
with  her  wishes,  we  were  both  startled  by  ad- 
vancing footsteps  in  the  shrubbery.  Some  one 
was  coming  from  the  house  to  seek  for  us!  I 
felt  the  blood  rush  into  my  checks,  and  then 
leave  them  again.  Could  the  third  person  who 
was  fast  apjiroaching  us,  at  such  a  time  and 
under  such  circumstances,  be  Miss  Fairlie  ? 

It  was  a  relief — so  sadly,  so  hopelessly  was 
my  position  toward  her  changed  already — it 
was  absolutely  a  relief  to  me,  when  the  person 
who  had  disturbed  us  a])])carcd  at  the  entrance 
of  the  summer-house,  and  proved  to  be  only 
Miss  Fairlie's  maid. 


"  Could  I  speak  to  you  for  a  moment.  Miss?" 
said  the  girl,  in  rather  a  flurried,  unsettled 
manner. 

Miss  Halcombe  descended  the  steps  into  the 
shrubbery,  and  walked  aside  a  few  paces  with 
the  maid. 

Left  by  myself,  my  mind  reverted,  with  a 
sense  of  forlorn  wretchedness  which  it  is  not  in 
any  words  that  I  can  find  to  describe,  to  my  aji- 
proaching  return  to  the  solitude  and  the  despair 
of  my  lonely  London  home.  Thoughts  of  mv 
kind  old  mother,  and  of  my  sister,  who  had  re- 
joiced with  her  so  innocently  over  my  prospects 
in  Cumberland — thoughts  whose  long  banish- 
ment from  my  heart  it  was  now  my  shame  and 
my  reproach  to  realize  for  the  first  time — came 
back  to  me  with  the  loving  mournfulness  of  old, 
neglected  friends.  My  mother  and  my  sister, 
what  would  they  feel  when  I  returned  to  them 
from  my  broken  engagement,  with  the  confes- 
sion of  my  miserable  secret. —  they  who  had 
parted  from  me  so  hopefully  on  that  last  happy 
night  in  the  Hampstead  cottage  ? 

Anne  Catherick  again  !  Even  the  memory 
of  the  farewell  evening  with  my  mother  and  my 
sister  could  not  return  to  me  now,  unconnected 
with  that  other  memory  of  the  moonlight  walk 
back  to  London.  What  did  it  mean  ?  Were 
that  woman  and  I  to  meet  once  more?  It  was 
possible,  at  the  least.  Did  she  know  that  I  lived 
in  London  ?  Yes  ;  I  had  told  her  so,  either  be- 
fore or  after  that  strange  cpiestion  of  hers,  when 
she  had  asked  me  so  distrustfully  if  I  knew  many 
men  of  the  rank  of  Baronet.  Either  before  or 
after — my  mind  was  not  calm  enough  then  to 
remember  which. 

A  few  minutes  elapsed  before  Miss  Halcombe 
dismissed  the  maid  and  came  back  to  me.  She, 
too,  looked  flurried  and  unsettled  now. 

"We  have  arranged  all  that  is  necessary, 
Mr.  Hartright,"  she  said.  "We  have  under- 
stood each  other,  as  friends  should ;  and  wo 
may  go  back  at  once  to  the  house.  To  tell  you 
the  truth,  I  am  uneasy  about  Laura.  She  has 
sent  to  say  she  wants  to  see  me  directly ;  and 
the  maid  reports  that  her  mistress  is  apparently 
very  much  agitated  by  a  letter  that  she  has  re- 
ceived this  morning — the  same  letter,  no  doubt, 
which  I  sent  on  to  the  house  before  we  came 
here." 

We  retraced  our  steps  together  hastily  along 
the  shrubbery  path.  Although  Miss  Halcombe 
had  ended  all  that  she  thought  it  necessary  to 
say  on  her  side,  I  had  not  ended  all  that  I  want- 
ed to  say  on  mine.  From  the  moment  when  I 
had  discovered  that  the  expected  visitor  at  Lim- 
meridge was  Miss  Fairlie's  future  husband,  I 
had  felt  a  bitter  curiosity,  a  burning,  envious 
eagerness,  to  know  who  he  was.  It  was  possi- 
ble that  a  future  oii]iortunity  of  jnttting  the  ques- 
tion might  not  easily  oii'er;  so  I  risked  asking 
it  on  our  way  back  to  the  house. 

"Now  that  you  are  kind  enough  to  tell  me 
we  have  understood  each  other.  Miss  Halcombe," 
I  said  ;  "  now  that  you  are  sure  of  my  giatitude 
for  )"Our  forbearance  and  my  obedience  to  your 
wishes,  may  I  venture  to  ask  who" — (I  hesita- 
ted; I  had  forced  myself  to  think  of  him,  but  it 
was  harder  still  to  s])cak  of  him,  as  her  promised 
husband) — "  who  the  gentleman  engaged  to  IMiss 
Fairlie  is?" 

Her  mind  was  evidently  occupied  with  the 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


33 


message  she  had  received  from  her  sister.     She 
answered,  in  a  hasty,  absent  way  : 

"A  gentleman  of  large  property  in  Hamp- 
shire." 

Hampshire  !  Anne  Catherick's  native  place. 
Again,  and  yet  again,  the  woman  in  white. 
There  ivas  a  fatality  in  it. 

"And  his  name?"  I  said,  as  quietly  and  in- 
differently as  I  could. 

"  Sir  Percival  Glyde." 

Sir — Sir  Percival !  Anne  Catherick's  ques- 
tion— that  suspicious  question  about  the  men  of 
the  rank  of  Baronet  whom  I  might  happen  to 
know — had  hardly  been  dismissed  from  my  mind 
by  Miss  Halcombe's  return  to  me  in  the  summer- 
house,  before  it  was  recalled  again  by  her  own 
answer.     I  stopped  suddenly,  and  looked  at  her. 

"  Sir  Percival  Glyde,"  she  repeated,  imagin- 
ing that  I  had  not  heard  her  former  reply. 

"Knight,  or  Baronet?"  I  asked,  with  an  agi- 
tation that  I  could  hide  no  longer. 

She  paused  for  a  moment,  and  then  answered, 
rather  coldly : 

"Baronet,  of  course." 

X. 

Not  a  word  more  was  said,  on  either  side,  as 
we  walked  back  to  the  house.  Miss  Halcombe 
hastened  immediately  to  her  sister's  room,  and 
I  withdrew  to  my  studio  to  set  in  order  all  of 
Mr.  Fairlie's  drawings  that  I  had  not  yet  mount- 
ed and  restored  before  I  resigned  them  to  the 
care  of  other  hands.  Thoughts  that  I  had  hith- 
erto restrained,  thoughts  that  made  my  jiosition 
harder  than  ever  to  endure,  crowded  on  me  now 
that  I  was  alone. 

She  was  engaged  to  be  married,  and  her  fu- 
ture husband  was  Sir  Percival  Glyde.  A  man 
of  the  rank  of  baronet,  and  the  owner  of  prop- 
erty in  Hampshire. 

There  were  hundreds  of  baronets  in  England, 
and  dozens  of  land-owners  in  Hampshire.  Judg- 
ing by  the  ordinary  rules  of  evidence,  I  had  not 
the  shadow  of  a  reason,  thus  far,  for  connecting 
Sir  Percival  Glyde  with  the  suspicious  words 
of  inquiry  that  had  been  spoken  to  me  by  the 
woman  in  white.  And  yet  I  did  connect  him 
with  them.  Was  it  because  he  had  now  be- 
come associated  in  my  mind  with  Miss  Fairlie  ; 
Miss  Fairlie  being,  in  her  turn,  associated  with 
Anne  Catherick,  since  the  night  when  I  had 
discovered  the  ominous  likeness  between  them  ? 
Had  the  events  of  the  morning  so  unnerved  me 
already  that  I  was  at  the  mercy  of  any  delusion 
which  common  chances  and  common  coinci- 
dences might  suggest  to  my  imagination  ?  Im- 
possible to  say.  I  could  only  feel  that  what  had 
passed  between  Miss  Halcombe  and  myself,  on 
our  way  from  the  summer-house,  had  affected 
me  very  strangely.  The  foreboding  of  some  un- 
discoverable  danger  lying  hid  from  us  all  in  tlie 
darkness  of  the  future,  was  strong  on  me.  The 
doubt  whether  I  was  not  linked  already  to  a 
chain  of  events  which  even  my  approaching  de- 
parture from  Cumberland  would  be  powerless 
to  snap  asunder — the  doubt  whether  we  any  of 
us  saw  the  end  as  the  end  would  really  be — 
gathered  more  and  more  darkly  over  my  mind. 
Poignant  as  it  was,  the  sense  of  suffering  caused 
by  the  miserable  end  of  my  brief,  presumptuous 
love,  seemed  to  be  blunted  and  deadened  by  the 
still  stronger  sense  of  something  obscurely  im- 
C 


pending,  something  invisibly  threatening,  that 
Time  was  holding  over  our  heads. 

I  had  been  engaged  with  the  drawings  little 
more  than  half  an  hour  when  there  was  a  knock 
at  the  door.  It  opened,  on  my  answering;  and, 
to  my  surprise.  Miss  Halcombe  entered  the  room. 

Her  manner  was  angry  and  agitated.  She 
caught  up  a  chair  for  herself,  before  I  could  give 
her  one  ;  and  sat  down  in  it,  close  at  my  side. 

"Mr.  Hartright,"  she  said,  "I  had  hoped 
that  all  painful  subjects  of  conversation  were 
exhausted  between  us,  for  to-day  at  least.  But 
it  is  not  to  be  so.  There  is  some  underhand 
villainy  at  work  to  frighten  my  sister  about  her 
approaching  marriage.  You  saw  me  send  the 
gardener  on  to  the  house,  with  a  letter  address- 
ed, in  a  strange  handwriting,  to  Miss  Fairlie  ?" 

"Certainly." 

"That  letter  is  an  anonymous  letter — a  vile 
attempt  to  injure  Sir  Percival  Glyde  in  my  sis- 
ter's estimation.  It  has  so  agitated  and  alarmed 
her  that  I  have  had  the  greatest  possible  diffi- 
culty in  composing  her  spirits  sufficiently  to  al- 
low me  to  leave  her  room  and  come  here.  I 
know  this  is  a  family  matter  on  which  I  ought 
not  to  consult  you,  and  in  which  you  can  feel 
no  concern  or  interest — " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  Miss  Halcombe.  I  feel 
the  strongest  possible  concern  and  interest  in 
any  thing  that  affects  Miss  Fairlie's  happiness  or 
yours." 

"I  am  glad  to  hear  you  say  so.  You  are  the 
only  person  in  the  house,  or  out  of  it,  who  can 
advise  me.  Mr.  Fairlie,  in  his  state  of  health 
and  with  his  horror  of  difficulties  and  mysteries 
of  all  kinds,  is  not  to  be  thought  of.  The  cler- 
gyman is  a  good,  weak  man,  who  knows  nothing 
out  of  the  routine  of  his  duties  ;  and  our  neigh- 
bors are  just  the  sort  of  comfortable,  jog-trot  ac- 
quaintances whom  one  can  not  disturb  in  times 
of  trouble  and  danger.  What  I  want  to  know 
is  this :  ought  I  at  once  to  take  such  steps  as 
I  can  to  discover  the  writer  of  the  letter?  or 
ought  I  to  wait,  and  apply  to  Mr.  Fairlie's  legal 
adviser  to-morrow?  It  is  a  question — perhaps 
a  very  important  one — of  gaining  or  losing  a 
day.  Tell  me  what  you  think,  Mr.  Hartright. 
If  necessity  had  not  already  obliged  me  to  take 
you  into  my  confidence  under  very  delicate  cir- 
cumstances, even  my  helpless  situation  would, 
perhaps,  be  no  excuse  for  me.  But,  as  things 
are,  I  can  not  surely  be  wrong,  after  all  that  has 
])assed  between  us,  in  forgetting  that  you  are  a 
friend  of  only  three  months'  standing." 

She  gave  me  the  letter.  It  began  abruptly, 
without  any  preliminary  form  of  address,  as 
follows : 

"Do  you  believe  in  dreams?  I  hope,  for 
your  own  sake,  that  you  do.  See  what  Scrip- 
ture says  about  dreams  and  their  fulfillment 
(Genesis  xl.  8,  xli.  25;  Daniel  iv.  18-2.5);  and 
take  the  warning  I  send  you  before  it  is  too  late. 

"Last  night  I  dreamed  about  you.  Miss  Fair- 
lie.  I  dreamed  that  I  was  standing  inside  the 
communion  rails  of  a  church :  I  on  one  side  of 
the  altar-table,  and  the  clergyman,  with  his  sur- 
plice and  his  prayer-book,  on  the  other. 

"  After  a  time  there  Avalked  toward  us,  down 
the  aisle  of  the  church,  a  man  and  a  woman, 
coming  to  be  married.  You  were  the  woman. 
You  looked  so  pretty  and  innocent  in  your  beau- 


34 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


tiful  white  silk  dress,  and  your  long  white  lace 
vail,  that  my  heart  felt  for  you,  and  the  tears 
came  into  my  eyes. 

"They  were  tears  of  pity,  young  lady,  that 
Heaven  blesses ;  and,  instead  of  falling  from 
my  eyes  like  the  everyday  tears  that  we  all  of  us 
shed,  they  turned  into  two  rays  of  light  which 
slanted  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  man  standing 
at  the  altar  with  you,  till  they  touched  his  breast. 
The  two  rays  sprang  in  arches  like  two  rain- 
bows, between  me  and  him.  I  looked  along 
them,  and  I  saw  down  into  his  inmost  heart. 

"  The  outside  of  the  man  you  were  marrying 
was  fair  enough  to  see.  He  was  neither  tall 
nor  short — he  was  a  little  below  the  middle  size. 
A  light,  active,  high-spirited  man — about  five- 
and-forty  years  old,  to  look  at.  He  had  a  pale 
face,  and  was  bald  over  the  forehead,  but  had 
dark  hair  on  the  rest  of  his  head.  His  beard 
was  shaven  on  his  chin,  but  was  let  to  grow,  of 
a  fine  rich  brown,  on  his  cheeks  and  his  upper 
lip.  His  eyes  were  brown  too,  and  very  bright ; 
his  nose  straight  and  handsome  and  delicate 
enough  to  have  done  for  a  woman's.  His  hands 
the  same.  He  was  troubled  from  time  to  time 
with  a  dry  hacking  cough;  and  when  he  put  up 
his  white  right  hand  to  his  mouth,  he  showed 
the  red  scar  of  an  old  wound  across  the  back  of 
it.  Have  I  dreamed  of  the  right  man?  You 
know  best.  Miss  Fairlie ;  and  you  can  say  if  I 
was  deceived  or  not.  Read,  next,  what  I  saw 
beneath  the  outside — I  entreat  you  read,  and 
profit. 

"I  looked  along  the  two  rays  of  light,  and  I 
saw  down  into  his  inmost  heart.  It  was  black 
as  night;  and  on  it  was  written,  in  the  red 
flaming  letters  which  are  the  handwriting  of 
the  fallen  angel:  'Without  i)ity  and  without  re- 
morse. He  has  strewn  with  misery  the  paths 
of  others,  and  he  will  live  to  strew  with  misery 
the  i)ath  of  this  woman  by  his  side.'  I  read 
that ;  and  then  the  rays  of  light  shifted  and 
pointed  over  his  shoulder ;  and  there,  behind 
him,  stood  a  fiend,  laughing.  And  the  rays  of 
light  shifted  once  more,  and  pointed  over  your 
shoulder;  and  there,  behind  you,  stood  an  an- 
gel weeping.  And  the  rays  of  light  shifted  for 
the  third  time,  and  pointed  straight  between 
you  and  that  man.  Tliey  widened  and  widen- 
ed, thrusting  you  both  asunder,  one  from  the 
other.  And  the  clergyman  looked  for  the  mar- 
riage-service in  vain :  it  was  gone  out  of  the 
book,  and  he  shut  up  the  leaves,  and  put  it  from 
him  in  despair.  And  I  woke  with  my  eyes  full 
of  tears  and  my  heart  beating — for  /  believe  in 
dreams. 

"  Believe,  too,  Miss  Fairlie — I  beg  of  you, 
for  3'our  own  sake,  believe  as  I  do.  Joseph  and 
Daniel,  and  others  in  Scripture,  believed  in 
dreams.  Inrpiire  into  the  past  life  of- that  man 
with  the  scar  on  his  hand,  before  you  say  the 
words  that  make  you  his  miserable  wife.  I  don't 
give  you  this  warning  on  my  account,  but  on 
yours.  I  have  an  interest  in  your  well-being 
that  will  live  as  long  as  I  draw  breath.  Your 
mother's  daughter  has  a  tender  jilace  in  my 
heart — for  your  mother  was  my  first,  my  best, 
my  only  friend." 

There  the  extraordinary  letter  ended,  without 
signature  of  any  sort. 

The  handwriting  afforded  no  prospect  of  a 


clew.  It  was  traced  on  ruled  lines,  in  the 
cramped,  conventional,  co])y-book  character, 
technically  termed  "small  hand."  It  was  fee- 
ble and  faint,  and  defaced  by  blots,  but  had  oth- 
erwise nothing  to  distinguish  it. 

"That  is  not  an  illiterate  letter,"  said  Miss 
Halcombe,  "and,  at  the  same  time,  it  is  surelv 
too  incoherent  to  be  the  letter  of  an  educated 
person  in  the  higher  ranks  of  life.  The  refer- 
ence to  the  bridal  dress  and  vail,  and  other  little 
expressions,  seem  to  point  to  it  as  the  produc- 
tion of  a  w^oman.  What  do  you  think,  Mi". 
Hartright  ?" 

"  I  think  so  too.  It  seems  to  me  to  he  not 
only  the  letter  of  a  woman,  but  of  a  woman 
whose  mind  must  be — " 

"Deranged?"  suggested  Miss  Halcombe. 
"  It  struck  me  in  that  light  too." 

I  did  not  answer.  While  I  was  speaking,  my 
eyes  rested  on  the  last  sentence  of  the  letter : 
"Your  mother's  daughter  has  a  tender  place  in 
my  heart — for  your  mother  was  my  first,  my 
best,  my  only  friend."  Those  words,  and  the 
doubt  which  had  just  escaped  me  as  to  the  san- 
ity of  the  writer  of  the  letter,  acting  together 
on  my  mind,  suggested  an  idea,  which  I  was 
literally  afraid  to  express  openly,  or  even  to 
encourage  secretly.  I  began  to  doubt  whether 
my  own  faculties  were  not  in  danger  of  losing 
their  balance.  It  seemed  almost  like  a  mono- 
mania to  be  tracing  back  every  thing  sti-ange 
that  happened,  every  thing  unexpected  that  was 
said,  always  to  the  same  hidden  source  and  the 
same  sinister  influence.  I  resolved,  this  time, 
in  defense  of  my  own  courage  and  my  own  sense, 
to  come  to  no  decision  that  plain  fact  did  not 
warrant,  and  to  turn  my  back  resolutely  on  ev- 
ery thing  that  tempted  me  in  the  shape  of  sur- 
mise. 

"  If  we  have  any  chance  of  tracing  the  per- 
son who  has  written  this,"  I  said,  returning  the 
letter  to  Miss  Halcombe,  "  there  can  be  no  harm 
in  seizing  our  opportunity  the  moment  it  offers. 
I  think  we  ought  to  speak  to  the  gardener  again 
about  the  elderly  woman  who  gave  him  the  let- 
ter, and  then  to  continue  our  inquiries  in  the 
village.  But  first  let  me  ask  a  question.  You 
mentioned  just  now  the  alternative  of  consulting 
Mr.  Fairlie's  legal  adviser  to-morrow.  Is  there 
no  possibility  of  communicating  with  him  earli- 
er?    Why  not  to-day  ?" 

"  I  can  only  explain, "  replied  Miss  Halcombe, 
"by  entering  into  certain  jmrticulars,  connected 
with  my  sister's  mai'riage  engagement,  which  I 
did  not  think  it  necessary  or  desirable  to  men- 
tion to  you  this  morning.  One  of  Sir  I'ercival 
Clyde's  objects  in  coming  here,  on  Monday,  is 
to  fix  the  ])criod  of  his  mamage,  which  has  hith- 
erto been  left  quite  unsettled.  He  is  anxious 
that  the  event  should  take  place  before  the  end 
of  the  year." 

"Does  Miss  Fairlie  know  of  that  wish?"  I 
asked,  eagerly. 

"She  has  no  suspicion  of  it ;  and,  after  what 
has  happened,  I  shall  not  take  the  responsibility 
u])on  myself  of  enlightening  lier.  Sir  I'ercival 
has  only  mentioned  his  views  to  Mr.  Fairlie,  who 
has  told  me  himself  that  he  is  ready  and  anxious, 
as  Laura's  guardian,  to  forward  them.  He  has 
written  to  London,  to  the  family  solicitor,  Mr. 
Gilmore.  Mr.  Gilmore  hapjiens  to  be  away  in 
Glasgow  on  business ;  and  he  has  replied  by  pro- 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


35 


posing  to  stop  iit  Limmeridge  House  on  his  way 
back  to  town.  He  will  arrive  to-morrow,  and 
will  stay  with  us  a  few  days,  so  as  to  allow  Sir 
Percival  time  to  plead  his  own  cause.  If  he 
succeeds,  Mr.  Gilmorc  will  tlien  return  to  Lon- 
don, taking  with  him  his  instructions  for  my 
sister's  marriage  settlement.  You  understand 
now,  Mr.  Hartright,  why  I  speak  of  waiting  to 
take  legal  advice  until  to-morrow  ?  Mr.  Gil- 
more  is  the  old  and  tried  friend  of  two  genera- 
tions of  Fairlies,  and  we  can  trust  him  as  we 
could  trust  no  one  else." 

The  marriage  settlement !  The  mere  hear- 
ing of  those  two  words  stung  me  with  a  jealous 
despair  that  was  poison  to  my  higher  and  better 
instincts.  I  began  to  think — it  is  hard  to  con- 
fess this,  but  I  must  snpprcss  nothing  from  be- 
ginning to  end  of  the  terrible  story  that  I  now 
stand  committed  to  reveal — I  began  to  think, 
with  a  hateful  eagerness  of  hope,  of  the  vague 
charges  against  Sir  Percival  Glyde  which  the 
anonymous  letter  contained.  What  if  those  wild 
accusations  rested  on  a  foundation  of  truth  ? 
What  if  their  truth  could  be  proved  before  the 
fatal  words  of  consent  were  spoken,  and  the 
marriage  settlement  was  drawn?  I  have  tried 
to  think,  since,  that  the  feeling  which  then  an- 
imated me  began  and  ended  in  pure  devotion  to 
Miss  Fairlie's  interests.  But  I  have  never  suc- 
ceeded in  deceiving  myself  into  believing  it;  and 
I  must  not  now  attempt  to  deceive  others.  The 
feeling  began  and  ended  in  reckless,  vindictive, 
hopeless  hatred  of  the  man  who  was  to  marry 
her. 

"  If  we  are  to  find  out  any  thing,"  I  said, 
speaking  under  the  new  influence  which  was 
now  directing  me,  "  we  had  better  not  let  an- 
other minute  slip  by  us  unemployed.  I  can  only 
suggest,  once  more,  the  propriety  of  questioning 
the  gardener  a  second  time,  and  of  inquiring  in 
the  village  immediately  afterward." 

"  I  think  I  may  be  of  help  to  you  in  both 
cases,"  said  Miss  Halcombe,  rising.  "Let  us 
go,  Mr.  Hartright,  at  once,  and  do  the  best  we 
can  together." 

I  had  the  door  in  my  hand  to  open  it  for  her, 
but  I  stopped,  on  a  sudden,  to  ask  an  important 
question  before  we  set  forth.  I 

"One  of  the  paragraphs  of  the  anonymous 
letter,"  I  said,  "contains  some  sentences  "of  mi-  I 
nute  personal  description.     Sir  Percival  Glyde's 
name  is  not  mentioned,  I  know — but  does  that 
description  at  all  resemble  him  ?" 

"Accurately;  even  in  stating  his  age  to  be 
forty-five — " 

Forty-five ;  and  she  was  not  yet  twenty-one ! 
Men  of  his  age  married  wives  of  her  age  every 
day;  and  experience  had  shown  those  mar- 
riages to  be  often  the  happiest  ones.  I  knew 
that — and  yet  even  the  mention  of  his  age,  when 
I  contrasted  it  with  hers,  added  to  my  blind 
hatred  and  distrust  of  him. 

"Accurately,"  Miss  Halcombe  continued, 
"even  to  the  scar  on  his  right  hand,  which  is 
the  scar  of  a  wound  that  he  received  years  since 
when  he  was  traveling  in  Italy.  There  can  be 
no  doubt  that  every  j)eculiarity  of  his  personal 
appearance  is  thoroughly  well  known  to  the 
writer  of  the  letter." 

"Even  a  cough  that  he  is  troubled  with  is 
mentioned,  if  I  remember  right?" 

"Yes,  and  mentioned  correctly.     He  treats  it 


lightly  himself,  though  it  sometimes  makes  his 
friends  anxious  about  him." 

"  I  suppose  no  whispers  have  ever  been  heard 
against  his  character?" 

"Mr.  Hartriglit!  I  hope  you  are  not  unjust 
enough  to  let  that  infamous  letter  influence 
you?" 

I  felt  the  blood  rush  into  my  cheeks,  for  I 
knew  that  it  had  influenced  me. 

"I  hope  not,"  I  answered,  confusedly.  "Per- 
haps I  had  no  right  to  ask  the  question." 

"I  am  not  sorry  you  asked  it,"  she  said,  "for 
it  enables  me  to  do  justice  to  Sir  Percival's  rep- 
utation. Not  a  whisper,  Mr.  Hartright,  has 
ever  reached  me,  or  my  fiimily,  against  him. 
He  has  fought  successfully  two  contested  elec- 
tions, and  has  come  out  of  the  ordeal  unscathed. 
A  man  who  can  do  that  in  England  is  a  man 
whose  character  is  established." 

I  opened  the  door  for  her  in  silence,  and  fol- 
lowed her  out.  She  had  not  convinced  me.  If 
the  recording  angel  had  come  down  from  heaven 
to  confirm  her,  and  had  opened  his  book  to  my 
mortal  eyes,  the  recording  angel  would  not  have 
convinced  me. 

We  found  the  gardener  at  work  as  usual.  No 
amount  of  questioning  could  extract  a  single 
answer  of  any  importance  from  the  lad's  impen- 
etrable stupidity.  The  woman  who  had  given 
him  the  letter  was  an  elderly  woman;  she  had 
not  spoken  a  word  to  him ;  and  she  had  gone 
away  toward  the  south  in  a  great  hurry.  That 
was  all  the  gardener  could  tell  us. 

The  village  lay  southward  of  the  house.  So 
to  the  village  we  went  next. 

XI. 

Our  inquiries  at  Limmeridge  were  patiently 
pursued  in  all  directions,  and  among  all  sorts 
and  conditions  of  peojjle.  But  nothing  came 
of  them.  Three  of  the  villagers  did  certainly 
assure  us  that  they  had  seen  the  woman ;  but 
as  they  were  quite  unable  to  describe  her,  and 
quite  incapable  of  agreeing  about  the  exact  di- 
rection in  which  she  was  proceeding  when  they 
last  saw  her,  these  three  bright  exceptions  to 
the  general  rule  of  total  ignorance  afforded  no 
jnore  real  assistance  to  us  than  the  mass  of  their 
unhelpful  and  unobservant  neighbors. 

The  course  of  our  useless  investigations 
brought  us,  in  time,  to  the  end  of  the  village, 
at  which  the  schools  established  by  Mrs.  Fairlie 
were  situated.  As  we  passed  the  side  of  the 
building  appropriated  to  the  use  of  the  boys,  I 
suggested  the  propriety  of  making  a  last  inquiry 
of  the  schoolmaster,  whom  we  might  presume 
to  be,  in  virtue  of  his  office,  the  most  intelligent 
man  in  the  place. 

"I  am  afraid  the  schoolmaster  must  have 
been  occupied  with  his  scholars,"  said  Miss 
Halcombe,  "just  at  the  time  when  the  woman 
passed  through  the  village,  and  returned  again. 
However,  we  can  but  try." 

We  entered  the  play-ground  inclosure,  and 
walked  by  the  school-room  window,  to  get  round 
to  the  door,  which  was  situated  at  the  back  of 
the  building.  I  stopped  for  a  moment  at  the 
window  and  looked  in. 

The  schoolmaster  was  sitting  at  his  high  desk, 
with  his  back  to  me,  apparently  haranguing  the 
pupils,  who  were  all  gathered  together  in  front 
of  him,  with  one  exception.    The  one  exception 


3G 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


was  a  sturdy  white-headed  boy,  standing  apart 
from  all  the  rest  on  a  stool  in  a  corner — a  for- 
lorn little  Crusoe,  isolated  in  his  own  desert  isl- 
and of  solitary  penal  disgrace. 

The  door,  when  we  got  round  to  it,  was  ajar; 
and  the  schoolmaster's  voice  reached  us  plainly, 
as  we  both  stojijied  for  a  minute  under  the  porch. 

"Now,  boys,"  said  the  voice,  "mind  what  I 
tell  you.  If  I  hear  another  word  spoken  about 
ghosts  in  this  school,  it  will  be  the  worst  for  all 
of  you.  There  are  no  such  things  as  ghosts; 
and,  therefore,  any  boy  who  believes  in  ghosts 
believes  in  what  can't  possibly  be ;  and  a  boy 
who  belongs  to  Limmeridge  School,  and  be- 
lieves in  what  can't  possibly  be,  sets  up  his  back 
against  reason  and  discipline,  and  must  be  pun- 
ished accordingly.  You  all  see  Jacob  Postle- 
thwaite  standing  np  on  the  stool  there  in  dis- 
grace. He  has  been  punished,  not  because  he 
said  he  saw  a  ghost  last  night,  but  because  he 
is  too  impudent  and  too  obstinate  to  listen  to 
reason ;  and  because  he  persists  in  saying  he 
saw  the  ghost  after  I  have  told  him  that  no  such 
thing  can  possibly  be.  If  nothing  else  will  do, 
I  mean  to  cane  the  ghost  out  of  Jacob  Postle- 
thwaite  ;  and  if  the  thing  spreads  among  any  of 
the  rest  of  you,  I  mean  to  go  a  step  farther,  and 
cane  the  ghost  out  of  the  whole  school." 

"  We  seem  to  have  chosen  an  awkward  mo- 
ment for  our  visit,"  said  Miss  Ilalcombe,  push- 
ing open  the  door  at  the  end  of  the  schoolmas- 
ter's address,  and  leading  the  way  in. 

Our  ai)])earance  jiroduccd  a  strong  sensation 
among  the  boys.     They  appeared  to  think  that 


we  had  an-ived  for  the  express  purpose  of  seeing 
Jacob  Postlethwaite  caned. 

"Go  home  all  of  you  to  dinner,"  said  the 
schoolmaster,  "except  Jacob.  Jacob  must  stop 
where  he  is ;  and  the  ghost  may  bring  him  his 
dinner,  if  the  ghost  pleases." 

Jacob's  fortitude  deserted  him  at  the  double 
disappearance  of  his  school-fellows  and  his  pros- 
pect of  dinner.  He  took  his  hands  out  of  his 
pockets,  looked  hard  at  his  knuckles,  raised 
them  with  great  deliberation  to  his  eyes,  and, 
when  they  got  there,  ground  them  round  and 
round  slowly,  accompanying  the  action  by  short 
spasms  of  snltfing,  which  followed  each  other  at 
regular  intervals — the  nasal  minute-guns  of  ju- 
venile distress. 

"We  came  here  to  ask  yon  a  question,  Mr. 
Dempster,"  said  Miss  Halcombe,  addressing  the 
schoolmaster;  "and  we  little  expected  to  find 
you  occupied  in  exorcising  a  ghost.  What  does 
it  all  mean?     What  has  really  happened?" 

"That  wicked  boy  has  been  frightening  the 
whole  school.  Miss  Halcombe,  by  declaring  that 
he  saw  a  ghost  yesterday  evening,"  answered 
the  master.  "And  he  still  persists  in  his  ab- 
surd story,  in  spite  of  all  that  I  can  say  to  him." 

"Most  extraordinary,"  said  Miss  Halcombe. 
"  I  should  not  have  thought  it  possible  that  any 
of  the  boys  had  imagination  enough  to  see  a 
ghost.  This  is  a  new  accession  indeed  to  the 
hard  labor  of  forming  the  youthful  mind  at  Lim- 
meridge— and  I  heartily  wish  you  well  through 
it,  Mr.  Dempster.  Jn  the  mean  time,  let  mc 
explain  why  you  see  me  here,  and  what  it  is  I 
want." 

She  then  put  the  same  question  to  the  school- 
master, which  we  had  asked  already  of  almost 
every  one  else  in  the  village.  It  was  met  by 
the  same  discouraging  answer.  Mr.  Dempster 
had  not  set  eyes  on  the  stranger  of  whom  we 
were  in  search. 

"  We  may  as  well  return  to  the  house,  Mr. 
Hartright,"  said  Miss  Halcombe,  "  the  informa- 
tion we  want  is  evidently  not  to  be  found." 

She  had  bowed  to  Mr.  Dempster,  and  was 
about  to  leave  the  school-room,  when  the  forlorn 
position  of  Jacob  Postlethwaite,  piteously  sniif- 
ing  on  the  stool  of  penitence,  attracted  her  at- 
tention as  she  passed  him,  and  made  her  stop 
good-humoredly  to  speak  a  word  to  the  little 
prisoner  before  she  ojiened  the  door. 

"You  foolish  boy,"  she  said,  "why  don't  you 
beg  Mr.  Dempster's  pardon,  and  hold  your 
tongue  about  the  ghost  ?" 

"  Eii  I — but  I  saw  t'  ghaist,"  persisted  Jacob 
Postlethwaite,  with  a  stare  of  terror  and  a  burst 
of  tears. 

"  Stuff  and  nonsense !  You  saw  nothing  of 
the  kind.     Ghost  indeed !     What  ghost—" 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  JNIiss  Halcombe,"  inter- 
posed the  schoolmaster,  a  little  uneasily — "but 
I  think  you  had  better  not  question  the  boy. 
The  obstinate  folly  of  his  story  is  beyond  all  be- 
lief;  and  you  might  lead  him  into  ignorantly — " 

"Ignorantly,  what?"  inquired  JMiss  Hal- 
combe, sharply. 

"  Ignorantly  shocking  your  feelings,"  said  Mr. 
Dem])ster,  looking  very  much  discomjiosed. 

"  Upon  my  word,  Mr.  Dempster,  you  jyay  my 
feelings  a  great  compliment  in  thinking  them 
weak  enough  to  be  shocked  by  such  an  xnxhin 
as  that!"     She  turned  with  an  air  of  satirical 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


37 


defiance  to  little  Jacob,  and  began  to  question 
him  directly.  "Come!"  she  said,  "I  mean  to 
know  all  about  this.  You  naughty  boy,  when 
did  you  see  the  ghost  ?" 

"  Yester'een,  at  the  gloaming, "  replied  Jacob. 

"  Oh !  you  saw  it  yesterday  evening,  in  the 
twilight?     And  what  was  it  like?" 

"Arl  in  white — as  a  ghaist  should  be,"  an- 
swered the  ghost-secr,  with  a  confidence  beyond 
his  years. 

"And  where  was  it?" 

"  Away  yander,  in  t'  Kirk-yard — where  a 
ghaist  ought  to  be." 

"As  a  '  ghaist'  should  be — where  a  '  ghaist' 
ought  to  be — why,  you  little  fool,  you  talk  as  if 
the  manners  and  customs  of  ghosts  had  been 
familiar  to  you  from  your  infancy !  You  have 
got  your  story  at  your  fingers'  end,  at  any  rate. 
I  suppose  I  shall  hear  next  that  you  can  actual- 
ly tell  me  whose  ghost  it  was  ?" 

"  Eh !  but  I  just  can, "  replied  Jacob,  nodding 
his  head  with  an  air  of  gloomy  triura]3h. 

Mr.  Dempster  had  already  tried  several  times 
to  speak,  while  Miss  Halcombe  was  examining 
his  pupil ;  and  he  now  interposed  resolutely 
enough  to  make  himself  heard. 

"Excuse  me.  Miss  Halcombe,"  he  said,  "if  I 
venture  to  say  that  you  are  only  encouraging 
the  boy  by  asking  him  these  questions." 

"  I  will  merely  ask  one  more,  I\h:  Dempster, 
and  then  I  shall  be  quite  satisfied.  Well,"  she 
continued,  turning  to  the  boy,  "and  whose 
ghost  was  it  ?" 

"T'  ghaist  of  Mistress  Fairlie,"  answered  Ja- 
cob, in  a  whisper. 

The  effect  which  this  extraordinary  reply  pro- 
duced on  Miss  Halcombe  fully  justified  the 
anxiety  which  the  schoolmaster  had  shown  to 
prevent  her  from  hearing  it.  Her  face  crim- 
soned with  indignation — she  turned  upon  little 
Jacob  with  an  angry  suddenness  which  terrified 
him  into  a  fresh  burst  of  tears — opened  her  lips 
to  speak  to  him — then  controlled  herself — and 
addressed  the  master  instead  of  the  boy. 

"It  is  useless,"  she  said,  "to  hold  such  a 
child  as  that  responsible  for  what  he  saj-s.  I 
have  little  doubt  that  the  idea  has  been  put  into 
his  head  by  others.  If  there  are  people  in  this 
village,  Mr.  Dempster,  who  have  forgotten  the 
respect  and  gratitude  due  from  every  soul  in  it 
to  my  mother's  memory,  I  will  find  them  out; 
and,  if  I  have  any  influence  with  Mr,  Fairlie, 
they  shall  sufter  for  it." 

"I  hope — indeed,  I  am  sure.  Miss  Halcombe 
— that  you  are  mistaken,"  said  the  schoolmas- 
ter. "The  matter  begins  and  ends  with  the 
boy's  own  perversity  and  folly.  He  saw,  or 
thought  he  saw,  a  woman  in  white,  yesterday 
evening,  as  he  was  jiassing  the  church-yard  ;  and 
the  figure,  real  or  fancied,  was  standing  by  the 
marble  cross,  ^vhich  he  and  every  one  else  in 
Limmeridge  knows  to  be  the  monument  over 
Mrs.  Fairlie's  grave.  These  two  circumstances 
are  surely  sufficient  to  have  suggested  to  the 
boy  himself  the  answer  which  has  so  naturally 
shocked  you  ?" 

Although  Miss  Halcombe  did  not  seem  to  be 
convinced,  she  evidently  felt  that  the  school- 
master's statement  of  the  case  was  too  sensible 
to  be  openly  combated.  She  merely  replied  by 
thanking  him  for  his  attention,  and  by  promis- 
ing to  see  him  again  when  her  doubts  were  sat- 


isfied.    This  said,  she  bowed,  and  led  the  way 
out  of  the  school-room. 

Throughout  the  whole  of  this  strange  scene 
I  had  stood  apart,  listening  attentively,  and 
drawing  my  own  conclusions.  As  soon  as  we 
were  alone  again.  Miss  Halcombe  asked  me  if  I 
had  formed  any  opinion  on  what  I  had  heard. 

"A  very  strong  opinion,"  I  answered  ;  "  the 
boy's  story,  as  I  believe,  has  a  foundation  in 
fact.  I  confess  I  am  anxious  to  see  the  monu- 
ment over  Mrs.  Fairlie's  grave,  and  to  examine 
the  ground  about  it." 

"You  shall  see  the  grave." 

She  paused  after  making  that  replj',  and  re- 
flected a  little  as  we  walked  on.  "What  has 
happened  in  the  school-room,"  she  resumed, 
"has  so  completely  distracted  my  attention 
from  the  subject  of  the  letter,  that  I  feel  a  little 
bewildered  when  I  try  to  return  to  it.  Must  we 
give  up  all  idea  of  making  any  further  inquiries, 
and  wait  to  place  the  thing  in  Mr.  Gilmore's 
hands,  to-morrow?" 

"By  no  means.  Miss  Halcombe.  What  has 
happened  in  the  school-room  encourages  me  to 
persevere  in  the  investigation." 

"Why  does  it  encourage  you?" 

"Because  it  strengthens  a  suspicion  I  felt 
when  you  gave  me  the  letter  to  read." 

"I  suppose  you  had  your  reasons,  Mr.  Hart- 
right,  for  concealing  that  suspicion  from  me  till 
this  moment?" 

"I  was  afraid  to  encourage  it  in  myself.  I 
thought  it  was  utterly  preposterous — I  distrust- 
ed it  as  the  result  of  some  perversity  in  my  own 
imagination.  But  I  can  do  so  no  longer.  Not 
only  the  boy's  own  answers  to  your  questions, 
but  even  a  chance  exjiression  that  dropped  from 
the  schoolmaster's  lips  in  explaining  his  story, 
have  forced  the  idea  back  into  my  mind.  Events 
may  yet  prove  that  idea  to  be  a  delusion.  Miss 
Halcombe ;  but  the  belief  is  strong  in  me,  at 
this  moment,  that  the  fancied  ghost  in  the 
church-yard,  and  the  writer  of  the  anonymous 
letter,  are  one  and  the  same  person." 

She  stopjied,  turned  pale,  and  looked  me 
eagerlv  in  the  face. 

"  What  person  ?" 

"The  schoolmaster  unconsciously  told  you. 
When  he  spoke  of  the  figure  that  the  boy  saw 
in  the  church-yard,  he  called  it  '  a  woman  in 
white.'" 

"  Not  Anne  Catherick !" 

"  Yes,  Anne  Catherick." 

She  jjut  her  hand  through  my  arm,  and  leaned 
on  it  heavily. 

"I  don't  know  why,"  she  said,  in  low  tones, 
"  but  there  is  something  in  this  suspicion  of 
yours  that  seems  to  startle  and  unnerve  me.  I 
feel — "  She  stopped,  and  tried  to  laugh  it  off. 
"  Mr.  Hartright,"  she  went  on,  "  I  will  show 
you  the  grave,  and  then  go  back  at  once  to  the 
house.  I  had  better  not  leave  Laura  too  long 
alone.     I  had  better  go  back  and  sit  with  her." 

We  were  close  to  the  church-yard  when  she 
spoke.  The  church,  a  dreary  building  of  gray 
stone,  was  situated  in  a  little  valley,  so  as  to 
be  sheltered  from  the  bleak  winds  blowing  over 
the  moorland  all  round  it.  The  burial-ground 
advanced,  from  the  side  of  the  church,  a  little 
way  up  the  slope  of  the  hill.  It  was  surround- 
ed by  a  rough  low  stone  wall,  and  was  bare  and 
open  to  the  sky,  except  at  one  extremity,  where 


88 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


"and   just   outside   the   door   an   old   woman   was   engaged  in   AVASniNG. 


a  brook  trickled  down  the  stony  hill-side,  and  a 
clump  of  dwarf  trees  threw  their  narrow  shad- 
ows over  the  short,  meagre  grass.  Just  beyond 
the  brook  and  the  trees,  and  not  far  from  one 
of  the  three  stone  stiles  which  afforded  entrance, 
at  various  points,  to  the  church-yard,  rose  the 
white  marble  cross  that  distinguished  Mrs.  Fair- 
lie's  grave  from  the  humbler  monuments  scat- 
tered about  it. 

"I  need  go  no  farther  with  you,"  said  Miss 
Halcombe,  pointing  to  the  grave.  "You  will 
let  me  know  if  you  find  any  tiling  to  confirm 
the  idea  you  have  just  mentioned  to  me.  Let 
us  meet  again  at  the  house." 

She  left  me.  I  descended  at  once  to  the 
church-yard,  and  crossed  the  stile  which  led 
directly  to  Mrs.  Fairlie's  grave. 

The  grass  about  it  was  too  short,  and  the 
ground  too  hard,  to  show  any  marks  of  foot- 
steps., Disappointed  thus  far,  I  next  looked  at- 
tentively at  the  cross,  and  at  the  square  block 
of  marble  below  it,  on  which  the  inscription 
was  cut. 

The  natural  whiteness  of  the  cross  was  a  little 
clouded,  here  and  there,  by  weather-stains;  and 
rather  more  than  one  half  of  the  square  block 


beneath  it,  on  the  side  which  bore  the  inscrip- 
tion, was  in  the  same  condition.  The  other  half, 
however,  attracted  my  attention  at  once,  by  its 
singular  freedom  from  stain  or  imjiuritj'  of  any 
kind.  I  looked  closer,  and  saw  tliat  it  had  been 
cleaned — recently  cleaned,  in  a  downward  di- 
rection from  top  to  bottom.  The  boundary  line 
between  the  part  that  had  been  cleaned  and  the 
part  that  had  not,  was  traceable  wherever  the 
inscription  left  a  blank  space  of  marble — sharp- 
ly traceable  as  a  line  that  had  been  produced  by 
artificial  means.  AVho  had  begun  the  cleansing 
of  the  marble,  and  who  had  left  it  unfinished? 

I  looked  about  me,  wondering  how  the  (pies- 
tion  was  to  be  solved.  No  sign  of  a  habitation 
could  be  discerned  from  the  jioint  at  which  I 
was  standing ;  the  burial-ground  was  left  in  the 
lonely  possession  of  the  dead.  I  returned  to  the 
church,  and  walked  round  it  till  I  came  to  the 
back  of  the  building  ;  then  crossed  the  boundary 
wall  beyond,  by  another  of  the  stone  stiles ;  and 
found  myself  at  the  head  of  a  path  leading  down 
into  a  deserted  stone  (|uarry.  Against  one  side 
of  the  quarry  a  little  two-room  cottage  was  built ; 
and  just  outside  the  door  an  old  woman  was  en- 
gaged in  washing. 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


39 


I  walked  up  to  her,  and  entered  into  conver- 
sation about  the  church  and  burial-ground.  She 
was  ready  enough  to  talk ;  and  almost  the  tirst 
words  she  said,  informed  me  that  her  husband 
filled  the  two  offices  of  clerk  and  sexton.  I  said 
a  few  words  next  in  praise  of  Mrs.  Fairlie's 
monument.  The  old  woman  shook  her  head, 
and  told  me  I  had  not  seen  it  at  its  best.  It 
was  her  husband's  business  to  look  after  it ;  but 
he  had  been  so  ailing  and  weak,  for  months  and 
months  past,  that  he  had  hardly  been  able  to 
crawl  into  church  on  Sundays  to  do  his  duty, 
and  the  monument  had  been  neglected  in  con- 
sequence. He  was  getting  a  little  better  now, 
and  in  a  week  or  ten  days'  time  he  hoped  to 
be  strong  enough  to  set  to  work  and  clean  it. 

This  information — extracted  from  a  long  ram- 
bling answer,  in  the  broadest  Cumberland  dia- 
lect— told  me  all  that  I  most  wanted  to  know.  I 
gave  the  poor  woman  a  trifle,  and  returned  at 
once  to  Limmeridge  House. 

The  ])artial  cleansing  of  the  monument  had 
evidently  been  accomplished  by  a  strange  hand. 
Connecting  what  I  had  discovered,  thus  far, 
with  what  I  had  suspected  after  hearing  the 
story  of  tlie  ghost  seen  at  twilight,  I  wanted  no- 
thing more  to  confirm  my  resolution  to  watch 
Mrs.  Fairlie's  grave,  in  secret,  that  evening ;  re- 
turning to  it  at  sunset,  and  waiting  within  sight 
of  it  till  night  fell.  The  work  of  cleansing  the 
monument  had  been  left  unfinished ;  and  the 
person  by  whom  it  had  been  begun  might  return 
to  complete  it. 

On  getting  back  to  the  house  I  informed  Miss 
Halcombe  of  what  I  intended  to  do.  She  looked 
suriirised  and  uneasy  while  I  was  ex]daining 
my  pui'pose ;  but  she  made  no  positive  objection 
to  the  execution  of  it.  She  only  said,  "I  hope 
it  may  end  well."  Just  as  she  was  leaving  me 
again,  I  stopped  her  to  inquire,  as  calmly  as  I 
could,  after  Miss  Fairlie's  health.  She  was  in 
better  spirits ;  and  Miss  Halcombe  hoped  she 
might  be  induced  to  take  a  little  walking  exer- 
cise while  the  afternoon  sun  lasted. 

I  returned  to  my  own  room  to  resume  setting 
the  drawings  in  order.  It  was  necessary  to  do 
this,  and  doubly  necessary  to  keep  my  mind  em- 
ployed on  any  thing  that  would  help  to  distract 
my  attention  from  myself,  and  from  the  hope- 
less future  that  lay  before  me.  From  time  to 
time  I  paused  in  my  work  to  look  out  of  win- 
dow and  watch  the  sky  as  the  sun  sank  nearer 
and  nearer  to  the  horizon.  On  one  of  those  oc- 
casions I  saw  a  figure  on  the  broad  gravel  walk 
under  the  window.     It  was  Miss  Fairlie. 

I  had  not  seen  her  since  the  morning,  and  I 
had  hardly  spoken  to  her  then.  Another  day 
at  Limmeridge  was  all  that  remained  to  me ; 
and  after  that  day  my  eyes  might  never  look  on 
her  again.  This  thought  was  enough  to  hold 
me  at  the  window.  I  had  sufficient  considera- 
tion for  her,  to  arrange  the  blind  so  that  she 
might  not  see  me  if  she  looked  up ;  but  I  had 
no  strength  to  resist  the  temptatioii  of  letting 
my  eyes,  at  least,  follow  her  as  far  as  they  could 
on  her  walk. 

She  was  dressed  in  a  brown  cloak,  with  a  plain 
black  silk  gown  under  it.  On  her  head  was  the 
same  simple  straw-hat  which  she  had  worn  on 
the  morning  when  we  first  met.  A  vail  was  at- 
tached to  it  now,  which  hid  her  face  from  me. 
By  her  side  trotted  a  little  Italian  greyhound, 


the  pet  companion  of  all  her  walks,  smartly 
dressed  in  a  scarlet  cloth  wrapper,  to  keep  the 
sharp  air  from  his  delicate  skin.  She  did  not 
seem  to  notice  the  dog.  She  walked  straight 
forward,  with  her  head  drooping  a  little,  and 
her  arms  folded  in  her  cloak.  The  dead  leaves 
which  had  whirled  in  the  wind  before  me,  when 
I  had  heard  of  her  marriage  engagement  in  the 
morning,  whirled  in  the  wind  before  her,  and 
rose  and  fell  and  scattered  themselves  at  her 
feet,  as  she  walked  on  in  the  pale  waning  sun- 
light. The  dog  shivered  and  trembled,  and 
pressed  against  her  dress  impatiently  for  notice 
and  encouragement.  But  she  never  heeded 
him.  She  walked  on,  farther  and  farther  away 
from  me,  with  the  dead  leaves  whirling  about 
her  on  the  path — walked  on,  till  my  aching  eyes 
could  see  her  no  more,  and  1  was  left  alone  again 
with  my  own  heavy  heart. 

In  another  hour's  time  I  had  done  my  work, 
and  the  sunset  was  at  hand.  I  got  my  hat  and 
coat  in  the  hall,  and  slipped  out  of  the  house 
without  meeting  any  one. 

The  clouds  were  wild  in  the  western  heaven, 
and  the  wind  blew  chill  from  the  sea.  Far  as 
the  shore  was,  the  sound  of  the  surf  swept  over 
the  intervening  moorland,  and  beat  drearily  in 
my  ears  when  I  entered  the  church-yard.  Not 
a  living  creature  was  in  sight.  The  place  looked 
lonelier  than  ever,  as  I  chose  my  position,  and 
waited  and  watched,  with  my  eyes  on  the  white 
cross  that  rose  over  Mrs.  Fairlie's  grave. 

XII. 

The  exposed  situation  of  the  church-yard  had 
obliged  me  to  be  cautious  in  choosing  the  posi- 
tion that  I  was  to  occupy. 

The  main  entrance  to  the  church  was  on  the 
side  next  to  the  burial-ground ;  and  the  door 
was  screened  by  a  porch  walled  in  on  either 
side.  After  some  little  hesitation,  caused  by  a 
natural  reluctance  to  conceal  myself,  indispens- 
able as  that  concealment  was  to  the  object  in 
view,  I  had  resolved  on  entering  the  porch.  A 
loo])hole  window  was  pierced  in  each  of  its  side 
walls.  Through  one  of  these  windows  I  could 
see  Mrs.  Fairlie's  grave.  The  other  looked  to- 
ward the  stone  quarry  in  which  the  sexton's  cot- 
tage was  built.  Before  me,  fronting  the  porch 
entrance,  was  a  patch  of  bare  burial-ground,  a 
line  of  low  stone  wall,  and  a  strip  of  lonely 
brown  hill,  with  the  sunset  clouds  sailing  heavily 
over  it  before  the  strong,  steady  wind.  No  liv- 
ing creature  was  visible  or  audible — no  bird  flew 
by  me ;  no  dog  barked  from  the  sexton's  cottage. 
The  pauses  in  the  dull  beating  of  the  surf  were 
filled  up  by  the  dreary  rustling  of  the  dwarf  trees 
near  the  grave,  and  the  cold,  faint  bubble  of  the 
brook  over  its  stony  bed.  A  dreary  scene  and 
a  dreary  hour.  My  spirits  sank  fast  as  I  count- 
ed out  the  minutes  of  the  evening  in  my  hiding- 
place  under  the  church  porch. 

It  was  not  twilight  yet — the  light  of  the  set- 
ting sun  still  lingered  in  the  heavens,  and  little 
more  than  the  first  half  hour  of  my  solitary 
watch  had  elapsed — when  I  heard  footsteps  and 
a  voice.  The  footsteps  were  approaching  from 
the  other  side  of  the  church ;  and  the  voice  was 
a  woman's. 

"Don't  you  fret,  my  dear,  about  the  letter," 
said  the  voice.  "I  gave  it  to  the  lad  quite  safe, 
and  the  lad  he  took  it  from  me  without  a  word. 


40 


THE  WOjVIAN  in  WHITE. 


He  went  his  way  and  I  went  mine ;  and  not  a 
living  soul  followed  me  afterward — that  I'll  war- 
rant." 

These  words  strung  up  my  attention  to  a  pitch 
of  expectation  that  was  almost  painful.  There 
was  a  pause  of  silence,  but  the  footsteps  still  ad- 
vanced. In  another  moment  two  ])ersons,  both 
women,  passed  within  my  range  of  view  from  the 
porch  window.  They  were  walking  straight  to- 
ward the  grave ;  and  therefore  they  had  their 
backs  turned  toward  me. 

One  of  the  women  was  dressed  in  a  bonnet 
and  shawl.  The  other  wore  a  long  traveling 
cloak  of  a  dark  blue  color,  with  the  hood  drawn 
over  her  head,  A  few  inches  of  her  gown  were 
visible  below  the  cloak.  My  heart  beat  fast  as 
I  noted  the  color — it  was  wliite. 

After  advancing  about  half-way  between  the 
church  and  the  grave  they  stopped ;  and  the 
woman  in  the  cloak  turned  her  head  toward  her 
companion.  But  her  side  face,  which  a  bonnet 
might  now  have  allowed  me  to  see,  was  hidden 
by  the  heavy  projecting  edge  of  the  hood. 

"  Mind  you  keep  that  Comfortable  warm  cloak 
on,"  said  the  same  voice  which  I  had  already 
heard — the  voice  of  the  woman  in  the  shawl. 
"Mrs. Todd  is  right  al)out  your  looking  too  par- 
ticular, yesterday,  all  in  white.  I'll  walk  about 
a  little,  while  you're  here ;  cluirch-yards  being 
not  at  all  in  my  way,  whatever  tliey  may  be  in 
yours.  Finish  wliat  you  want  to  do  before  I 
come  back ;  and  let  us  be  sure  and  get  home 
again  before  night." 

Witli  those  words  she  turned  about,  and,  re- 
tracing her  stops,  advanced  with  her  face  toward 
me.      It  was   the  face  of  an  elderly  woman, 


brown,  rugged,  and  healthy,  with  nothing  dis- 
honest or  suspicious  in  the  look  of  it.  Close  to 
the  church  she  stopped  to  pull  her  shawl  closer 
round  her. 

"Queer,"  she  said  to  herself,  "always  queer, 
with  her  whims  and  her  ways,  ever  since  I  can 
i-emeraber  her.  Harmless,  though  —  as  harm- 
less, poor  soul,  as  a  little  child." 

*  She  sighed ;  looked  about  the  burial-ground 
nervously ;  shook  her  head  as  if  the  dreary  jiros- 
pect  by  no  means  pleased  her ;  and  disappeared 
round  the  corner  of  the  church. 

I  doubted  for  a  moment  whether  I  ought  to 
follow  and  speak  to  her,  or  not.  My  intense 
anxiety  to  find  myself  face  to  face  with  her  com- 
panion helj)ed  me  to  decide  in  the  negative.  I 
could  insure  seeing  the  woman  in  the  shawl  by 
waiting  near  the  church-yard  until  she  came 
back — although  it  seemed  more  tlian  doubtful 
whether  slie  could  give  me  the  information  of 
which  I  was  in  search.  The  person  who  had 
delivered  the  letter  was  of  little  consequence. 
The  person  who  had  written  it  was  the  one  cen- 
tre of  interest,  and  the  one  source  of  informa- 
tion ;  and  tliat  person  I  now  felt  convinced  was 
before  me  in  tiie  cliurch-yard. 

While  these  ideas  were  passing  through  my 
mind,  I  saw  the  woman  in  the  cloak  approach 
close  to  the  grave,  and  stand  looking  at  it  for  a 
little  while.  She  then  glanced  all  round  her, 
and,  taking  a  white  linen  cloth  or  handkerchief 
from  under  her  cloak,  tui-ned  aside  toward  the 
brook.  The  little  stream  ran  into  the  church- 
yard under  a  tiny  arch-way  in  the  bottom  of  the 
wall,  and  ran  out  again,  after  a  winding  course 
of  a  few  dozen  yards,  under  a  similar  opening. 
She  dipped  the  cloth  in  the  water,  and  returned 
to  the  grave.  I  saw  her  kiss  the  white  cross ; 
then  kneel  down  liefore  the  inscription,  and  ap- 
ply her  wet  cloth  to  the  cleansing  of  it. 

After  considering  how  I  could  show  myself 
with  the  least  possible  chance  of  frightening 
her,  I  resolved  to  cross  the  wall  before  me,  to 
skirt  round  it  outside,  and  to  enter  the  church- 
yard again  by  the  stile  near  the  grave,  in  order 
that  she  might  see  me  as  I  approached.  She 
was  so  absorbed  over  her  employment  that  she 
did  not  hear  me  coming  until  I  had  stepped 
over  the  stile.  Then  she  looked  up,  started  t() 
her  feet  with  a  faint  cry,  and  stood  facing  me 
in  speechless  and  motionless  terror. 

"  Don't  be  frightened,"  I  said.  "  Surely  you 
remember  me  ?" 

I  stopped  while  I  spoke — then  advanced  a  few 
steps  gently — then  stopjied  again — and  so  ap- 
proached by  little  and  little,  till  I  was  close  to 
her.  If  there  had  been  any  doubt  still  left  in 
my  mind  it  must  have  been  now  set  at  rest. 
There,  speaking  aftriglitedly  for  itself — there 
was  the  same  face  confronting  me  over  Mrs. 
Fairlie's  grave,  which  had  first  looked  into  mine 
on  the  high  road  by  night. 

"You  remember  me?"  I  said.  "We  met 
very  late,  and  1  lieljied  you  to  find  the  way  to 
London.     Surely  you  liave  not  forgotten  that?" 

Her  features  rehixcd,  and  slie  drew  a  heavy 
breath  of  relief.  I  saw  the  new  life  of  recogni- 
tion stirring  slowly  under  the  deathlike  stillness 
which  fear  liad  set  on  her  face. 

"Don't  atteuqit  to  speak  to  me  just  yet,"  I 
went  on.  "Take  time  to  recover  yourself — take 
time  to  feel  quite  certain  that  I  am  a  friend." 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


41 


"  You  are  very  kind  to  me,"  she  murmured. 
"As  kind  now  as  you  were  then." 

She  stopped,  and  I  kept  silence  on  my  side. 
I  was  not  granting  time  for  composure  to  her 
only,  I  was  gaining  time  also  for  myself.  Un- 
der the  wan,  wild  evening  light,  that  woman 
and  I  were  met  together  again ;  a  grave  between 
us,  the  dead  about  us,  the  lonesome  hills  closing 
us  round  on  every  side.  The  time,  the  place, 
the  circumstances  under  which  we  now  stood 
face  to  face  in  the  evening  stillness  of  that 
dreary  valley ;  the  life-long  interests  which  might 
hang  suspended  on  the  next  chance  words  that 
passed  between  us ;  the  sense  that,  for  aught  I 
knew  to  the  contrary,  the  whole  future  of  Laura 
Fairlie's  life  might  be  determined,  for  good  or 
for  evil,  by  my  winning  or  losing  the  confidence 
of  the  forlorn  creature  who  stood  trembling  by 
her  mother's  grave— all  threatened  to  shake  the 
steadiness  and  the  self-control  on  which  every 
inch  of  the  progress  I  might  yet  make  now  de- 
pended. I  tried  hard,  as  I  felt  this,  to  possess 
myself  of  all  my  resources  ;  I  did  my  utmost  to 
turn  the  few  moments  for  reflection  to  the  best 
account. 

"Arc  you  calmer,  now?"  I  said,  as  soon  as  I 
thought  it  time  to  speak  again.  "  Can  you  talk 
to  me  without  feeling  frightened,  and  without 
forgetting  that  I  am  a  friend  ?" 

"How  did  you  come  here?"  she  asked,  with- 
out noticing  what  I  had  just  said  to  her. 

"  Don't  you  remember  my  telling  you,  when 
we  last  met,  that  I  was  going  to  Cumberland? 
I  have  been  in  Cumberland  ever  since ;  I  have 
been  staying  all  the  time  at  Limmeridge  House." 

"At  Limmeridge  House!"  Her  pale  face 
brightened  as  she  repeated  the  words ;  her  wan- 
dering eyes  fixed  on  me  with  a  sudden  interest. 
"Ah,  how  happy  you  must  have  been!"  she 
said,  looking  at  me  eagerly,  without  a  shadow 
of  its  former  distrust  left  in  her  expression. 

I  took  advantage  of  her  newly-aroused  confi- 
dence in  me,  to  observe  her  face,  with  an  at- 
tention and  a  curiosity  which  I  had  hitherto 
restrained  myself  from  showing,  for  caution's 
sake.  I  looked  at  her,  with  my  mind  full  of 
that  other  lovely  face  which  had  so  ominously 
recalled  her  to  my  memory  on  the  terrace  by 
moonlight.  I  had  seen  Anne  Catherick's  like- 
ness in  Miss  Fairlie.  I  now  saw  Miss  Fairlie's 
likeness  in  Anne  Catherick — saw  it  all  the  more 
clearly  because  the  points  of  dissimilarity  be- 
tween the  two  were  presented  to  me  as  well  as 
the  points  of  resemblance.  In  the  general  out- 
line of  the  countenance  and  general  proportion 
of  the  features ;  in  the  color  of  the  hair  and  in 
the  little  nervous  uncertainty  about  the  lips  ;  in 
the  height  and  size  of  the  figure,  and  the  cai-- 
riage  of  the  head  and  body,  the  likeness  appear- 
ed even  more  startling  than  I  had  ever  felt  it  to 
be  yet.  But  there  the  resemblance  ended,  and 
the  dissimilarity,  in  details,  began.  The  deli- 
cate beauty  of  Miss  Fairlie's  complexion,  the 
transparent  clearness  of  her  eyes,  the  smooth 
purity  of  her  skin,  the  tender  bloom  of  color  on 
her  lii)s,  were  all  missing  from  the  worn,  weary 
face  that  was  now  turned  toward  mine.  Al- 
though I  hated  myself  even  for  tliinking  such  a 
thing,  still,  while  I  looked  at  the  woman  before 
me,  the  idea  would  force  itself  into  my  mind 
that  one  sad  change,  in  the  future,  was  all  that 
was  wanting  to  make  the  likeness   complete, 


which  I  now  saw  to  be  so  imperfect  in  detail. 
If  ever  sorrow  and  sufi'ering  set  their  ])rofauing 
marks  on  the  youth  and  beauty  of  Miss  Fairlie's 
face,  then,  and  then  only,  Anne  Catherick  and 
she  would  be  the  twin-sisters  of  chance  resem- 
blance, the  living  reflections  of  one  another. 

I  shuddered  at  the  thought.  There  was  some- 
thing horrible  in  the  blind,  unreasoning  distrust 
of  the  future  which  the  mere  passage  of  it  through 
my  mind  seemed  to  imply.  It  was  a  welcome 
interruption  to  be  roused  l)y  feeling  Anne  Cath- 
erick's hand  laid  on  my  shoulder.  The  touch 
was  as  stealthy  and  as  sudden  as  that  other 
touch,  which  had  petrified  me  from  head  to  foot 
on  the  night  when  we  first  met. 

"You  are  looking  at  me;  and  you  are  think- 
ing of  something,"  she  said,  with  her  strange, 
breathless  rapidity  of  utterance.    "  What  is  it  ?" 

"Nothing  extraordinary,"  I  answered.  "I 
was  only  wondering  how  you  came  here." 

"I  came  with  a  friend  who  is  very  good  to 
me.     I  have  only  been  here  two  days." 

"And  you  fouud  your  way  to  this  place  yes- 
terday ?" 

"  How  do  you  know  that  ?" 

"I  only  guessed  it." 

She  turned  from  me,  and  knelt  down  before 
the  inscription  once  more. 

"Where  should  I  go,  if  not  here?"  she  said. 
"The  friend  who  was  better  than  a  mother  to 
me,  is  the  only  friend  I  have  to  visit  at  Lim- 
meridge. Oh,  it  makes  my  heart  ache  to  see  a 
stain  on  her  tomb !  It  ought  to  be  kept  white 
as  snow,  for  her  sake.  I  was  tempted  to  begin 
cleaning  it  yesterday ;  and  I  can't  help  coming 
back  to  go  on  with  it  to-day.  Is  there  any  thing 
wrong  in  that  ?  I  hope  not.  Surely  nothing 
can  be  wrong  that  I  do  for  Mrs.  Fairlie's  sake?" 

The  old  grateful  sense  of  her  benefactress's 
kindness  was  evidently  the  ruling  idea  still  in 
the  poor  creature's  mind  —  the  narrow  mind 
which  had  but  too  plainly  opened  to  no  other 
lasting  impression  since  that  first  impression  of 
her  younger  and  ha])pier  days.  I  saw  that  my 
best  chance  of  winning  her  confidence  lay  in 
encouraging  her  to  jiroceed  with  the  artless  em- 
ployment which  she  had  come  into  the  burial- 
gi'ound  to  pursue.  She  resumed  it  at  once,  on 
my  telling  her  she  might  do  so ;  touching  the 
hard  marble  as  tenderly  as  if  it  had  been  a  sen- 
tient thing,  and  whispering  the  words  of  the  in- 
scription to  herself,  over  and  over  again,  as  if 
the  lost  days  of  her  girlhood  had  returned,  and 
she  was  patiently  learning  her  lesson  once  more 
at  Mrs.  Fairlie's  knees. 

"  Should  you  wonder  very  much,"  I  said,  pre- 
paring the  way  as  cautiously  as  I  could  for  the 
questions  that  were  to  come,  "  if  I  owned  that 
it  is  a  satisfaction  to  me,  as  well  as  a  surprise, 
to  see  you  here?  I  felt  verj'  uneasy  about  you 
after  you  left  me  in  the  cab." 

She  looked  up  quicklv  and  sus]iiciously. 

"  Uneasy,"  she  repeated.     "Why  ?" 

"A  strange  thing  hajipened,  after  we  parted, 
that  night.  Two  men  overtook  me  in  a  chaise. 
They  did  not  see  where  I  was  standing;  but 
they  stopped  near  me,  and  spoke  to  a  policeman 
on  the  other  side  of  the  way." 

She  instantly  suspended  her  employment. 
The  hand  holding  the  damp  cloth  with  which 
she  bad  been  cleaning  the  inscription  dropped 
to  her  side ;  the  other  hand  grasped  the  mar- 


42 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


"the  hand  holding  the  damp  cloth  with  which  she  had  been  cleaning  the  inscrip- 
tion   DROPPED   TO    HEK    SIDE  ;    TUB    OTHER    HAND    GRASPED    THE    MARBLE    CROSS,"  ETC. 


ble  cross  at  the  head  of  the  p;rave.  Her  face 
turned  toward  me  slowly,  with  the  blank  look 
of  terror  set  rigidly  on  it  once  more.  I  went 
on  at  all  hazards ;  it  was  too  late  now  to  draw 
back. 

"The  two  men  spoke  to  the  policeman,"  I 
said,  "  and  asked  him  if  he  had  seen  you.  He 
had  not  seen  you ;  and  then  one  of  the  men 
spoke  again,  and  said  you  had  escaped  from  his 
Asylum." 

She  sprang  to  her  feet,  as  if  my  last  woikIs 
had  set  the  pursuers  on  her  track. 

"  Stop !  and  hear  the  end,"  I  cried.  "  Stop  ! 
and  you  shall  know  how  I  befriended  you.  A 
word  from  me  would  have  told  the  men  which 
way  you  had  pone — and  I  never  spoke  that  word. 
I  hel])ed  your  escajje — I  made  it  safe  and  cer- 
tain. Think,  try  to  think.  Try  to  understand 
what  I  tell  you." 

My  manner  seemed  to  influence  her  more 
than  my  words.  She  made  an  effort  to  grasp 
the  new  idea.  Her  hands  sliifted  the  damp 
cloth  hesitatingly  from  one  to  the  other,  exactly 
as  they  had  shifted  the  little  traveling-bag  on 
the  niglit  when  I  lirst  saw  her.     Slowly,  the  pur- 


pose of  my  words  seemed  to  force  its  way  through 
tlie  confusion  and  agitation  of  her  mind.  Slow- 
ly, her  features  relaxed,  and  her  eyes  looked  at 
me  with  their  expression  gaining  in  curiosity 
what  it  was  fast  losing  in  fear. 

"  You  don't  think  I  ought  to  be  back  in  the 
Asylum,  do  you  ?"  she  said. 

"  Certainly  not.  I  am  glad  you  escaped  from 
it;  I  am  glad  I  helped  you." 

"Yes,  yes;  you  did  help  me,  indeed;  you 
hel]ied  me  at  the  hard  jiart,"  she  went  on,  a  lit- 
tle vacantly.  "  It  was  easy  to  escape,  or  I  should 
not  have  got  away.  They  never  suspected  me 
as  they  suspected  the  others.  I  was  so  quiet, 
and  so  obedient,  and  so  easily  frightened.  The 
finding  London  was  the  hard  ])art ;  and  there 
you  helped  me.  Did  I  thank  you  al^the  time? 
I  thank  you  now,  very  kindly." 

"Was"  the  Asylum  far  from  where  you  met 
me?  Come!  show  that  you  believe  me  to  be 
your  friend,  and  tell  me  where  it  was." 

Slie  mentioned  the  ]ilace — a  jirivate  Asylum, 
as  its  situation  informed  me;  a  private  Asylum 
not  very  far  from  the  sjiot  where  I  had  seen  her 
— and  then,  with  evident  suspicion  of  the  use  to 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


43 


which  I  might  put  her  answer,  anxiously  re- 
peated her  former  inquiry:  "  You  don't  think  I 
ought  to  be  taken  back,  do  you?" 

"  Once  again,  I  am  ghxd  you  escaped ;  I  am 
glad  you  prospered  well  after  you  left  me,"  I 
answered.  "  You  said  you  had  a  friend  in  Lon- 
don to  go  to.     Did  you  find  the  friend  ?" 

"  Yes.  It  was  very  late ;  but  there  was  a  girl 
up  at  needle-work  in  the  house,  and  she  helped 
me  to  rouse  Mrs.  Clements.  J\Irs.  Clements  is 
my  friend.  A  good,  kind  M'oman,  but  not  like 
Mrs.  Fairlie.  Ah,  no,  nobody  is  like  Mrs.  Fair- 
lie  !" 

"  Is  Mrs.  Clements  an  old  friend  of  yours  ? 
Have  you  known  her  a  long  time?" 

"  Yes ;  she  was  a  neighbor  of  ours  once,  at 
home,  in  Hampshire ;  and  liked  me,  and  took 
care  of  me  when  I  was  a  little  girl.  Years  ago, 
when  she  went  away  from  us,  she  wrote  down 
in  my  prayer-book  for  me  where  she  was  going 
to  live  in  London,  and  she  said,  '  If  you  are  ever 
in  trouble,  Anne,  come  to  me.  I  have  no  hus- 
band alive  to  say  me  nay,  and  no  children  to 
look  after ;  and  I  will  take  care  of  you.'  Kind 
words,  were  they  not?  I  suppose  I  remem- 
ber them  because  they  were  kind.  It's  little 
enough  I  remember  besides — little  enough,  little 
enough !" 

"Had  you  no  father  or  mother  to  take  care 
of  you  ?" 

"  Father?  I  never  saw  him :  I  never  heard 
mother  speak  of  him.  Father?  Ah,  dear!  he 
is  dead,  I  suppose." 

"And  your  mother?" 

"  I  don't  get  on  well  with  her.  We  are  a 
trouble  and  a  fear  to  each  other." 

A  trouble  and  a  fear  to  each  other !  At  those 
words  the  suspicion  crossed  my  mind  for  the 
first  time  that  her  mother  might  be  the  person 
who  had  placed  her  under  restraint. 

"Don't  ask  me  about  mother,"  she  went  on. 
"  I'd  ratlier  talk  of  Mrs.  Clements.  Mrs.  Clem- 
ents is  like  you,  she  doesn't  think  that  I  ought 
to  be  back  in  the  Asylum  ;  and  she  is  as  glad  as 
you  are  that  I  escaj)ed  from  it.  She  cried  over 
my  misfortune,  and  said  it  must  be  kept  secret 
from  every  body." 

Her  "  misfortune."  In  what  sense  was  she 
using  that  word  ?  In  a  sense  which  might  ex- 
plain her  motive  in  writing  the  anonymous  let- 
ter? In  a  sense  which  might  show  it  to  be  the 
too  common  and  too  customary  motive  that  has 
led  many  a  woman  to  interpose  anonymous 
hinderances  to  the  marriage  of  the  man  who  has 
ruined  her  ?  I  resolved  to  attempt  the  clearing 
up  of  this  doubt,  before  more  words  passed  be- 
tween us  on  either  side. 

"What  misfortune?"  I  asked. 

"The  misfortune  of  my  being  shut  up,"  she 
answered,  with  every  appearance  of  feeling  sur- 
prised at  my  question.  "What  other  misfor- 
tune could  thei-e  be?" 

I  determined  to  persist,  as  delicately  and  for- 
bearingly  as  possible.  It  was  of  very  great  im- 
poi'tance  that  I  should  be  absolutely  sure  of 
every  step  in  the  investigation  that  I  now  gained 
in  advance. 

"There  is  another  misfortime,"  I  said,  "to 
which  a  woman  may  be  liable,  and  by  which  she 
may  suffer  life-long  sorrow  and  shame." 
"  What  is  it  ?"  she  asked,  eagerly. 
"The  misfortune  of  believing  too  innocently 


in  her  own  virtue,  and  in  the  faith  and  honor 
of  the  man  she  loves,"  I  answered. 

She  looked  up  at  me  with  the  artless  bewil- 
derment of  a  child.  Not  the  slightest  confusion 
or  change  of  color ;  not  the  faintest  trace  of  any 
secret  consciousness  of  shame  struggling  to  the 
surface,  appeared  in  her  face — that  face  which 
betrayed  every  other  emotion  with  such  transpa- 
rent clearness.  No  words  that  ever  were  spoken 
could  have  assured  me,  as  her  look  and  manner 
now  assured  me,  that  the  motive  which  I  had 
assigned  for  her  writing  the  letter  and  sending 
it  to  Miss  Fairlie  was  ])lainly  and  distinctly  the 
wrong  one.  That  doubt,  at  any  rate,  was  now 
set  at  rest ;  but  the  very  removal  of  it  opened  a 
new  prospect  of  uncertainty.  The  letter,  as  I 
knew  from  positive  testimony,  pointed  at  Sir 
Percival  Clyde,  thougli  it  did  not  name  him. 
She  must  have  had  some  strong  motive,  origin- 
ating in  some  deep  sense  of  injury,  for  secretly 
denouncing  him  to  Miss  Fairlie,  in  such  terms 
as  she  had  cmjiloyed — and  that  motive  was  un- 
questionably not  to  be  traced  to  the  loss  of  her 
innocence  and  her  character.  Whatever  wrong 
he  might  have  inflicted  on  her  was  not  of  that 
nature.     Of  what  nature  could  it  be  ? 

"  I  don't  understand  you,"  she  said,  after 
evidently  trying  hard,  and  trying  in  vain,  to 
discover  the  meaning  of  the  words  I  had  last 
said  to  her. 

"  Never  mind,"  I  answered.  "  Let  us  go  on 
with  what  we  were  talking  about.  Tell  me  how 
long  you  staid  with  Mrs.  Clements  in  London, 
and  how  you  came  here." 

"How  long?"  she  repeated.  "I  staid  with 
Mrs.  Clements  till  we  both  came  to  this  place, 
two  days  ago." 

"  You  are  living  in  the  village,  then  ?"  I  said. 
"It  is  strange  I  should  not  have  heard  of  you, 
though  you  have  only  been  there  two  days." 

"No,  no;    not  in  the  village.     Three  mile:^' 
away  at  a  farm.    Do  you  know  the  farm  ?    They 
call  it  Todd's  Corner." 

I  remembered  the  place  perfectly ;  we  had 
often  passed  by  it  in  our  drives.  It  was  one  of 
the  oldest  farms  in  the  neighborhood,  situated 
in  a  solitary,  shcltei-ed  spot,  inland,  at  the  junc- 
tion of  two  hills. 

"They  ai-e  relations  of  Mrs.  Clements  at 
Todd's  Corner,"  she  went  on,  "and  they  had 
often  asked  her  to  go  and  see  them.  She  said 
she  would  go,  and  take  me  with  her,  for  the 
quiet  and  the  fresh  air.  It  was  very  kind,  was 
it  not  ?  I  would  have  gone  any  wdiere  to  be 
quiet,  and  safe,  and  out  of  the  way.  But  when 
I  heard  that  Todd's  Corner  was  near  Limmer- 
idge — oh !  I  was  so  happy  I  would  have  walked 
all  the  way  barefoot  to  get  there,  and  see  the 
schools  and  the  village  and  Limmeridge  House 
again.  They  are  very  good  people  at  Todd's 
Corner.  I  hope  I  shall  stay  there  a  long  time. 
There  is  only  one  thing  I  don't  like  about  them, 
and  don't  like  about  Mrs.  Clements — " 

"What  is  it?" 

"They  will  tease  me  about  dressing  all  in 
white — they  say  it  looks  so  particular.  How 
do  they  know?  Mrs.  Fairlie  knew  best.  Mrs. 
Fairlie  would  never  have  made  me  wear  this 
ugly  blue  cloak.  Ah  !  she  Mas  fond  of  white  in 
her  lifetime;  and  here  is  white  stone  about  her 
grave — and  I  am  making  it  whiter  for  her  sake. 
She  often  wore  white  herself;  and  she  always 


44 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


dressed  her  little  daughter  in  white.  Is  Miss 
Fairlie  well  and  happy  ?  Does  she  wear  white 
now,  as  she  used  when  she  was  a  girl?" 

Her  voice  sank  when  she  put  the  questions 
about  Miss  Fairlie ;  and  she  turned  her  liead 
fai'ther  and  farther  away  from  me.  I  thought 
I  detected,  in  the  alteration  in  her  manner,  an 
uneasy  consciousness  of  the  risk  she  had  run  in 
sending  the  anonymous  letter ;  and  I  instantly 
determined  so  to  frame  my  answer  as  to  surprise 
her  into  owning  it. 

"Miss  Fairlie  is  not  very  well  or  very  happy 
this  morning, "  I  said. 

She  murmured  a  few  words  ;  but  they  were 
spoken  so  confusedly,  and  in  such  a  low  tone, 
that  I  could  not  even  guess  at  what  they  meant. 

"Did  you  ask  me  why  Miss  Fairlie  was 
neither  well  nor  happy  this  morning  ?"  I  con- 
tinued. 

"  No,"  she  said,  quickly  and  eagerly — "  oh, 
no,  I  never  asked  that." 

"I  will  tell  you  without  your  asking,"  I 
went  on,  "  Miss  Fairlie  has  received  your  let- 
ter." 

She  had  been  down  on  her  knees  for  some 
little  time  past,  carefully  removing  the  last 
weather-stains  left  about  the  inscription,  while 
we  were  speaking  together.  The  first  sentence 
of  the  words  I  had  just  addressed  to  her  made 
her  pause  in  her  occupation,  and  turn  slowly, 
without  rising  from  lier  knees,  so  as  to  face  me. 
The  second  sentence  literally  petrified  her. 
The  cloth  she  had  been  holding  dropped  from 
her  hands ;  her  lips  fell  apart ;  all  the  little  col- 
or that  there  was  naturally  in  her  face  left  it  in 
an  instant. 

"How  do  you  know?"  she  said,  faintly. 
"  Who  showed  it  to  you  ?"  The  blood  rushed 
back  into  her  face — rushed  overwhelmingly,  as 
.  the  sense  rushed  upon  her  mind  that  her  own 
words  had  betrayed  her.  She  struck  her 
hands  together  in  despair.  "I  never  wrote  it," 
she  gasped,  affrightedly ;  "  I  know  nothing 
about  it!" 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  "  you  wrote  it,  and  you  know 
about  it.  It  was  wrong  to  send  such  a  letter ; 
it  was  wrong  to  frighten  Miss  Fairlie.  If  vou 
had  any  thing  to  say  that  it  was  right  and  nec- 
essary for  her  to  hear,  you  should  have  gone 
yourself  to  Limmeridge  House  ;  you  should  have 
spoken  to  the  young  lady  with  your  own  lips." 

She  crouched  down  over  the  flat  stone  of  the 
grave,  till  her  face  was  hidden  on  it ;  and  made 
no  reply. 

"  Miss  Fairlie  will  be  as  good  and  kind  to  you 
as  her  mother  was,  if  you  mean  well,"  I  went 
on.  "Miss  Fairlie  will  keep  your  secret,  and 
not  let  you  come  to  any  harm.  Will  you  see 
her  to-morrow  at  the  farm?  Will  you  meet 
her  in  tlie  garden  at  Limmeridge  House  ?" 

"  (Jh,  if  I  could  die,  and  be  hidden  and  at 
rest  with  i/on.'"  Her  lips  murmured  the  words 
close  on  the  grave-stone ;  mm-mured  them  in 
tones  of  passionate  endearment  to  the  dead  re- 
mains beneath.  "  You  know  how  I  love  your 
child,  for  your  sake  !  Oh,  Mrs.  Fairlie  !  Mrs. 
Fairlie  !  tell  me  how  to  save  her.  Be  my  dar- 
ling and  my  mother  once  more,  and  tell  me 
what  to  do  for  the  best !" 

I  heard  her  lips  kissing  the  stone:  T  saw  her 
hands  heating  on  it  passionately.  The  sound 
and  the  sight  deeply  affected  me.     I  stooped 


down,  and  took  the  poor  helpless  hands  tender- 
ly in  mine,  and  tried  to  soothe  her. 

It  was  useless.  She  snatched  her  hands 
from  me,  and  never  moved  her  face  from  the 
stone.  Seeing  the  nrgent  necessity  of  quieting 
her  at  any  hazard  and  by  any  means,  I  ajjpeal- 
ed  to  the  only  anxiety  that  she  had  appeared  to 
feel,  in  connection  with  me  and  with  my  ojnn- 
ion  of  her — the  anxiety  to  convince  me"  of  her 
fitness  to  be  mistress  of  her  own  actions. 

"  Come,  come,"  I  said,  gently.  "  Try  to 
compose  yourself,  or  you  will  make  me  alter 
my  opinion  of  you.  Don't  let  me  think  that 
the  person  who  put  you  in  the  Asylum  might 
have  had  some  excuse — " 

The  next  words  died  away  on  my  lips.  The 
instant  I  risked  tiiat  chance  reference  to  the 
person  who  had  put  her  in  the  Asylum  she 
sprang  up  on  her  knees.  A  most  extraordina- 
ry and  startling  change  passed  over  her.  Her 
face,  at  all  ordinary  times  so  touching  to  look 
at,  in  its  nervous  sensitiveness,  weakness,  and 
uncertainty,  became  suddenly  darkened  by  an 
expression  of  maniacally  intense  hatred  and 
fear,  wliich  communicated  a  wild,  unnatural 
force  to  every  feature.  Her  eyes  dilated  in  the 
dim  evening  light,  like  the  eyes  of  a  wild  ani- 
mal. She  caught  up  the  cloth  that  had  fallen 
at  her  side,  as  if  it  had  been  a  living  creature 
that  she  could  kill,  and  crushed  it  in  both  her 
hands  with  such  convulsive  strengtii  that  the 
few  drops  of  moisture  left  in  it  trickled  down 
on  the  stone  beneath  her. 

"Talk  of  something  else,"  she  said,  whisper- 
ing through  her  teeth.  "I  shall  lose  myself  if 
you  talk  of  that." 

Every  vestige  of  the  gentler  thoughts  which 
had  filled  her  mind  hardly  a  minute  since 
seemed  to  be  swept  from  it  now.  It  was  evi- 
dent that  the  impression  left  by  Mrs.  Fairlie's 
kindness  was  not,  as  I  had  suj^posed,  the  only 
strong  impression  on  her  memory.  With  the 
grateful  remembrance  of  her  school-days  at 
Limmeridge  there  existed  the  vindictive  re- 
membrance of  the  wrong  inflicted  on  her  by  her 
confinement  in  the  Asylum.  Who  had  done 
that  wrong?     Could  it  really  be  her  mother? 

It  was  hard  to  give  up  ])ursuing  the  iniiuiry 
to  that  final  point ;  but  I  forced  myself  to  aban- 
don all  idea  of  continuing  it.  Seeing  her  as  I 
saw  her  now,  it  would  have  been  cruel  to  think 
of  any  thing  but  the  necessity  and  the  humani- 
ty of  restoring  her  composure. 

"I  will  talk  of  nothing  to  distress  you,"  I  said, 
soothingly. 

"You  want  something,"  she  answered,  sharp- 
ly and  sus))iciously.  "Don't  look  at  me  like 
tliat.     S])eak  to  me ;  tell  me  what  you  want." 

"I  only  want  you  to  quiet  yourself,  and,  when 
you  are  calmer,  to  think  over  what  I  have  said." 

"Said?"  She  paused;  twisted  the  cloth  in 
her  hands,  backward  and  forward ;  and  whis- 
pered to  herself,  "What  is  it  he  said?"  Site 
turned  again  toward  me,  and  shook  her  head 
impatiently.  "Why  don't  you  help  me?"  she 
asked,  with  angry  suddenness. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  I  said ;  "  I  will  help  you ;  and 
you  will  soon  remember.  I  asked  you  to  see 
Miss  Fairlie  to-morrow,  and  to  tell  her  the  truth 
about  the  letter." 

"Ah!  Miss  Fairlie— Fairlie— Fairlie— " 

The  mere  utterance  of  the  loved,  familiar 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


45 


name  seemed  to  qniet  her.     Her  face  softened 
and  grew  like  itself  again. 

"You  need  have  no  fear  of  Miss  Fairlie,"  I 
continued;  "and  no  fear  of  getting  into  trou- 
ble through  the  letter.  She  knows  so  much 
about  it  already,  that  you  will  have  no  difficul- 
ty in  telling  her  all.  There  can  be  little  neces- 
sity for  concealment  where  there  is  hardly  any 
thing  left  to  conceal.  You  mention  no  names 
in  the  letter ;  but  Miss  Fairlie  knows  that  the 
person  you  write  of  is  Sir  Percival  Glyde — " 

The  instant  I  pronounced  that  name  she 
started  to  her  feet ;  and  a  scream  burst  from 
her  that  rang  through  the  church-yard  and 
made  my  heart  leap  in  me  with  the  terror  of  it. 
The  dark  deformity  of  the  expression  which  had 
just  left  her  face  lowered  on  it  once  more  with 
doubled  and  trebled  intensity.  The  shriek  at 
the  name,  the  reiterated  look  of  hatred  and  fear 
that  instantly  followed,  told  all.  Not  even  a 
last  doubt  now  remained.  Her  mother  was 
guiltless  of  impi-isoning  her  in  the  Asylum.  A 
man  had  shut  her  up,  and  that  man  was  Sir  Per- 
cival Glyde. 

The  scream  had  reached  other  ears  than  mine. 
On  one  side  I  heard  the  door  of  the  sexton's 
cottage  open ;  on  the  other,  I  heard  the  voice 
of  her  companion,  the  woman  in  the  shawl,  the 
woman  whom  she  had  spoken  of  as  Mrs.  Clem- 
ents. 

"I'm  coming!  I'm  coming!"  cried  the  voice 
from  behind  the  clump  of  dwarf  trees. 

In  a  moment  more  Mrs.  Clements  hurried 
into  view. 

"Who  are  you?"  she  cried,  facing  me  reso- 
lutely, as  she  set  her  foot  on  the  stile.  "  How 
dare  you  frighten  a  poor  helpless  woman  like 
that  ?" 

She  was  at  Anne  Catherick's  side,  and  had 
put  one  arm  around  her,  before  I  could  answer. 
"  What  is  it,  my  dear?"  she  said.  "What  has 
he  done  to  you?" 

"Nothing,"  the  poor  creature  answered ;  "  no- 
thing.    I'm  only  frightened." 

Mrs.  Clements  turned  on  me  with  a  fearless 
indignation  for  which  I  respected  her. 

"  I  should  be  heartily  ashamed  of  myself  if  I 
deserved  that  angry  look,"  I  said.  "But  I  do 
not  desen'e  it.  I  have  unfortunately  startled 
her  without  intending  it.  This  is  not  the  first 
time  she  has  seen  me.  Ask  her  yourself,  and 
she  will  tell  you  that  I  am  incapable  of  will- 
ingly harming  her  or  any  woman." 

I  spoke  distinctly,  so  that  Anne  Catherick 
might  hear  and  understand  me  ;  and  I  saw  that 
the  words  and  their  meaning  had  reached  her. 

"Yes,  yes,"  she  said;  "he  was  good  to  me 
once ;  he  helped  me — "  She  whispered  the 
rest  into  her  friend's  ear. 

"  Strange,  indeed!"  said  j\Irs.  Clements,  with 
a  look  of  perplexity.  "  It  makes  all  the  differ- 
ence, though.  I'm  sorry  I  s])oke  so  rough  to 
you.  Sir;  but  you  must  own  that  appearances 
looked  suspicious  to  a  stranger.  It's  more  my 
fault  than  yours,  for  humoring  her  whims,  and 
letting  her  be  alone  in  such  a  place  as  this. 
Come,  my  dear — come  home  now." 

I  thought  the  good  woman  looked  a  little 
uneasy  at  the  prospect  of  the  walk  back,  and  I 
offered  to  go  with  them  until  they  were  both 
within  sight  of  home.  Mrs.  Clements  thanked 
me  civilly,  and  declined.     She  said  they  were 


sure  to  meet  some  of  the  farm  laborers  as  soon 
as  they  got  to  the  moor. 

"Try  to  forgive  me,"  I  said,  when  Anne 
Catherick  took  her  friend's  arm  to  go  away. 
Innocent  as  I  had  been  of  any  intention  to  ter- 
rify and  agitate  her,  my  heart  smote  me  as  I 
looked  at  the  poor,  pale,  frightened  face. 

"I  will  try,"  she  answered.  "But  you  know 
too  much ;  I'm  afraid  you  will  always  frighten 
me  now." 

Mrs.  Clements  glanced  at  me,  and  shook  her 
head,  pityingly. 

"  Good-night,  Sir,"  she  said.  "  You  couldn't 
help  it,  I  know ;  but  I  wish  it  was  me  you  had 
frightened,  and  not  her." 

They  moved  away  a  few  steps.  I  thought 
they  had  left  me ;  but  Anne  suddenly  stopped 
and  separated  herself  from  her  friend. 

"Wait  a  little,"  she  said.  "  I  must  say  good- 
by." 

She  returned  to  the  grave,  rested  both  hands 
tenderly  on  the  mai'ble  cross,  and  kissed  it. 

"I'm  better  now,"  she  sighed,  looking  up  at 
me  quietly.     "I  forgive  you." 

She  joined  her  companion  again,  and  they 
left  the  burial-ground.  I  saw  them  stop  near 
the  church,  and  speak  to  the  sexton's  wife,  who 
had  come  from  the  cottage,  and  had  waited, 
watching  us  from  a  distance.  Then  they  went 
on  again  up  the  path  tliat  led  to  the  moor.  I 
looked  after  Anne  Catherick  as  she  disappear- 
ed till  all  trace  of  her  had  faded  in  the  twi- 
light— looked  as  anxiously  and  sorrowfully  as 
if  that  was  the  last  I  was  to  see  in  this  weary 
world  of  the  woman  in  white. 

XIII. 

Half  an  hour  later  I  was  back  at  the  house 
and  was  informing  Miss  Halcombe  of  all  that 
had  happened. 

She  listened  to  me  from  beginning  to  end  with 
a  steady,  silent  attention,  which,  in  a  woman  of 
her  temperament  and  disposition,  was  the  stron- 
gest proof  that  could  be  offered  of  the  serious 
manner  in  which  my  narrative  afiected  her. 

"  My  mind  misgives  me,"  was  all  she  said 
when  I  had  done.  "  My  mind  misgives  me 
sadly  about  the  future." 

"The  future  may  depend,"  I  suggested,  "on 
the  use  we  make  of  the  present.  It  is  not  im- 
probable that  Anne  Catherick  may  speak  more 
readily  and  unreservedly  to  a  woman  than  she 
has  spoken  to  me.     If  Miss  Fairlie — " 

"  Not  to  be  thought  of  for  a  moment,"  inter- 
posed Miss  Halcombe,  in  her  most  decided  man- 
ner. 

"Let  me  suggest,  then,"  I  continued,  "that 
you  should  see  Anne  Catherick  yourself,  and  do 
all  you  can  to  win  her  confidence.  For  my  own 
part,  I  shrink  from  the  idea  of  alarming  the 
jxjor  creature  a  second  time,  as  I  have  most  un- 
happily alarmed  her  already.  Do  you  see  any 
objection  to  accompanying  me  to  the  farm-house 
to-morrow?" 

"  None  whatever.  I  will  go  any  where  and 
do  any  thing  to  serve  Laura's  interests.  What 
did  you  say  the  place  was  called?" 

"  You  must  know  it  well.  It  is  called  Todd's 
Corner." 

"Certainly.  Todd's  Corner  is  one  of  Mr. 
Faiidie's  farms.  Our  dairy-maid  hei'e  is  the 
farmer's  second  daughter.     She  goes  backward 


46 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


and  forward  constantly  between  this  house  and 
her  father's  farm,  and  she  may  have  heard  or 
seen  something  which  it  may  be  useful  for  us  to 
know.  Shall  I  ascertain  at  once  if  the  girl  is 
down  stairs?" 

She  rang  the  bell,  and  sent  the  servant  with 
his  message.  He  returned,  and  announced  that 
the  dairy-maid  was  then  at  the  farm.  She  had 
not  been  there  for  the  last  three  days,  and  the 
housekeejier  had  given  her  leave  to  go  home  for 
an  hour  or  two  that  evening. 

"I  can  speak  to  her  to-morrow,"  said  Miss 
Halcombe,  when  the  servant  had  left  the  room 
again.  "  In  the  mean  time,  let  me  thoroughly 
understand  the  object  to  be  gained  by  my  inter- 
view with  Anne  Catherick.  Is  there  no  doubt 
in  your  own  mind  that  the  person  who  confined 
her  in  the  Asylum  Mas  Sir  Fercival  Glyde?" 

"There  is  not  the  shadow  of  a  doubt.  The 
only  mystery  that  remains  is  tlie  mystery  of  his 
motive.  Looking  to  the  great  difterence  between 
his  station  in  life  and  hers,  which  seems  to  pre- 
clude all  idea  of  the  most  distant  relationship 
between  them,  it  is  of  the  last  importance — even 
assuming  that  she  really  required  to  be  placed 
under  restraint — to  know  why  he  should  have 
been  the  person  to  assume  the  serious  responsi- 
bility of  shutting  her  up — " 

"In  a  private  Asylum,  I  think  you  said  ?" 

"Yes,  in  a  private  Asylum,  where  a  sum  of 
money  which  no  poor  person  could  atlbrd  to  give 
must  have  been  paid  for  her  maintenance  as  a 
patient." 

"I  see  where  the  doubt  lies,  Mr.  Hartright; 
and  I  promise  you  that  it  shall  be  set  at  rest, 
whether  Anne  Catherick  assists  us  to-morrow  or 
not.  Sir  Percival  Glyde  shall  not  be  long  in 
this  house  without  satisfying  Mr.  Gilmore,  and 
satisfying  me.  My  sister's  future  is  my  dearest 
care  in  life,  and  I  have  influence  enough  over 
her  to  give  me  some  ])Ower,  wiiere  her  marriage 
is  concerned,  in  the  disposal  of  it." 

We  parted  for  the  night. 

After  treakfast  the  next  morning  an  obstacle, 
v/hich  the  events  of  the  evening  before  had  put 
out  of  my  memory,  interposed  to  prevent  our 
proceeding  immediately  to  the  farm.  Tliis  was 
my  last  day  at  Limmeridge  House ;  and  it  was 
necessary,  as  soon  as  the  post  came  in,  to  follow 
Miss  Halcombe's  advice,  and  to  ask  Mr.  Fair- 
lie's  permission  to  shorten  my  engagement  by  a 
month,  in  consideration  of  an  unforeseen  neces- 
sity for  my  return  to  London. 

Fortunately  for  the  probability  of  this  excuse, 
so  far  as  appearances  were  concerned,  the  post 
brought  me  two  letters  from  London  friends  that 
morning.  I  took  them  away  at  once  to  my  own 
room,  and  sent  the  servant  with  a  message  to 
Mr.  Fairlie,  requesting  to  know  when  I  could  see 
him  on  a  matter  of  business. 

I  awaited  the  man's  return,  free  from  the 
slightest  feeling  of  anxiety  about  the  manner  in 
which  his  master  might  receive  my  ajiplication. 
With  Mr.  Fairlie's  leave  or  without  it  I  must 
go.  The  consciousness  of  having  now  taken  the 
first  step  on  the  dreary  journey  wliich  was  hence- 
forth to  separate  my  life  from  Miss  Fairlie's 
seemed  to  have  blunted  my  sensibility  to  every 
consideration  connected  with  myself.  I  had 
done  with  my  i)Oor  man's  touchy  pride ;  I  had 
done  with  all  my  little  artist  vanities.     No  inso- 


lence of  Mr.  Fairlie's,  if  he  chose  to  be  insolent, 
could  wound  me  now. 

The  servant  returned  with  a  message  for 
which  I  was  not  unprepared.  Mr.  Fairlie  re- 
gretted that  the  state  of  his  health,  on  that  par- 
ticular morning,  was  such  as  to  preclude  all 
hope  of  his  having  the  pleasure  of  receiving  me. 
He  begged,  therefore,  that  I  would  accept  his 
apologies,  and  kindly  communicate  what  I  had 
to  say  in  the  form  of  a  letter.  Similar  messages 
to  this  had  reached  me,  at  various  intervals,  dur- 
ing my  three  months'  residence  in  tlie  house. 
Throughout  the  whole  of  that  period  Mr.  Fair- 
lie  had  been  rejoiced  to  "possess"  me,  but  had 
never  been  well  enough  to  see  me  for  a  second 
time.  The  servant  took  every  fresh  batch  of 
drawings  that  I  mounted  and  restored  back  to 
his  master  with  my  "respects,"  and  returned 
empty-handed  with  Mr.  Fairlie's  "kind  compli- 
ments," "best  thanks,"  and  "sincere  regrets" 
that  the  state  of  his  health  still  obliged  him  to 
remain  a  solitary  ])risoner  in  his  own  room.  A 
more  satisfactory  arrangement  to  both  sides 
could  not  possibly  have  been  adopted.  It  would 
be  hard  to  say  M'hich  of  us,  under  the  circum- 
stances, felt  the  most  gi-ateful  sense  of  obliga- 
tion to  Mr.  Fairlie's  accommodating  nerves. 

I  sat  down  at  once  to  write  the  letter,  express- 
ing myself  in  it  as  civilly,  as  clearly,  and  as 
briefly  as  possible.  Mr.  Fairlie  did  not  hurry 
his  reply.  Nearly  an  hour  elapsed  before  the 
answer  was  placed  in  my  hands.  It  was  written 
with  beautiful  regularity  and  neatness  of  char- 
acter, in  violet-colored  ink,  on  note-paper  as 
smooth  as  ivory  and  almost  as  thick  as  card- 
board ;  and  it  addressed  me  in  these  terms : 

"  Mr.  Fairlie's  compliments  to  Mr.  Hartright. 
Mr.  Fairlie  is  more  surprised  and  disappointed 
than  he  can  say  (in  the  present  state  of  his 
health)  by  Mr.  ILnrtright's  application.  Mr. 
Fairlie  is  not  a  man  of  business,  but  he  has  con- 
sulted his  steward,  who  is,  and  that  person  con- 
firms Mr.  Fairlie's  opinion  that  Mr.  Hartrighl's 
request  to  be  allowed  to  break  his  engagement 
can  not  be  justified  by  any  necessity  whatever, 
excepting  perhaps  a  case  of  life  and  death.  If 
the  highly-ajipreciative  feeling  toward  Art  and 
its  jn'ofcssors,  which  it  is  the  consolation  and 
hapjiiness  of  Mr.  Fairlie's  suft'ering  existence  to 
cultivate,  could  be  easily  shaken,  Mr.  Hartright's 
present  proceeding  would  have  shaken  it.  It 
has  not  done  so — except  in  the  instance  of  Mr. 
Hartright  himself. 

"Having  stated  his  opinion — so  far,  that  is 
to  say,  as  acute  nervous  sufiering  will  allow  him 
to  state  any  thing — Mr.  Fairlie  has  notiiing  to 
add  but  the  exjjression  of  his  decision,  in  refer- 
ence to  the  highly  irregular  application  that  has 
been  made  to  him.  Perfect  repose  of  body  and 
mind  being  to  the  last  degree  imjiortant  in  his 
case,  Mr.  Fairlie  will  not  suftcr  Mr.  Hartright 
to  disturb  that  repose  by  remaining  in  the  house 
under  circumstances  of  an  essentially  irritating 
nature  to  both  sides.  Accordingly,  Mr.  Fairlie 
waves  his  right  of  refusal,  purely  with  a  view- 
to  the  jireservation  of  his  own  tranquillity — and 
informs  Mr.  Hartright  that  he  may  go." 

I  folded  the  letter  tij),  and  put  it  awa}'  with 
my  other  papers.  The  time  had  been  when  I 
should  have  resented  it  as  an  insult :  I  accepted 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


47 


it  now  as  a  written  release  from  my  engage- 
ment. It  was  off  my  mind,  it  was  almost  out 
of  my  memory,  when  I  went  down  stairs  to  tlie 
breakfast- room,  and  informed  Miss  Halcombe 
that  I  was  ready  to  walk  with  her  to  the  farm. 

"Has  Mr.  Fairlie  given  you  a  satisfactory 
answer  ?"  she  asked,  as  we  left  the  house. 

"He  has  allowed  me  to  go,  Miss  Halcombe." 

She  looked  up  at  me  quickly ;  and  then,  for 
the  first  time  since  I  had  known  her,  took  my 
arm  of  her  own  accord.  No  words  could  have 
expressed  so  delicately  that  she  understood  how 
the  permission  to  leave  my  employment  had 
been  granted,  and  that  she  gave  me  her  sym- 
pathy, not  as  my  superior,  but  as  my  friend.  I 
had  not  felt  the  man's  insolent  letter,  but  I  felt 
deeply  the  woman's  atoning  kindness. 

On  our  way  to  the  farm  we  arranged  that 
Miss  Halcombe  was  to  enter  the  house  alone, 
and  that  I  was  to  wait  outside,  within  call. 
We  adopted  this  mode  of  proceeding  from  an 
apprehension  that  my  pi'esence,  after  what  had 
happened  in  the  church-yard  the  evening  be- 
fore, might  have  the  effect  of  renewing  Anne 
Catherick's  nervous  dread,  and  of  rendering  her 
additionally  distrustful  of  the  advances  of  a 
lady  who  was  a  stranger  to  her.  Miss  Hal- 
combe left  me,  with  the  intention  of  speaking, 
in  the  first  instance,  to  the  farmer's  wife  (of 
whose  friendly  readiness  to  help  her  in  anyway 
she  was  wefl  assured),  while  I  waited  for  her  in 
the  near  neighborhood  of  the  house. 

I  had  fully  expected  to  be  left  alone  for  some 
time.  To  my  surprise,  however,  little  more  than 
five  minutes  had  elapsed  before  Miss  Halcombe 
returned. 

"Does  Anne  Catherick  refuse  to  see  you?"  I 
asked,  in  astonishment. 

"  Anne  Catherick  is  gone,"  replied  Miss  Hal- 
combe. 

"Gone!" 

"  Gone,  with  Mrs.  Clements.  They  both  left 
the  farm  at  eight  o'clock  this  morning." 

I  could  say  nothing — I  could  only  feel  that  our 
last  chance  of  discovery  had  gone  with  them. 

"  All  that  Mrs.  Todd  knows  about  her  guests 
I  know,"  Miss  Halcombe  went  on;  "and  it 
leaves  me,  as  it  leaves  her,  in  the  dark.  They 
both  came  back  safe,  last  night,  after  they  left 
you,  and  they  passed  the  first  part  of  the  even- 
ing with  Mr.  Todd's  family,  as  usual.  Just  be- 
fore supper -time,  however,  Anne  Catherick 
startled  them  all  by  being  suddenly  seized  with 
faintness.  She  had  had  a  similar  attack,  of  a 
less  alarming  kind,  on  the  day  she  arrived  at 
the  farm  ;  and  Mi's.  Todd  had  connected  it,  on 
that  occasion,  with  something  she  was  reading 
at  the  time  in  our  local  newspaper,  which  lay  on 
the  farm  table,  and  which  she  had  taken  up  only 
a  minute  or  two  before." 

"  Does  Mrs.  Todd  know  what  particular  pas- 
sage in  the  newspaper  affected  her  in  that 
way?"  I  inquired. 

"No,"  replied  Miss  Halcombe.  "She  had 
looked  it  over,  and  had  seen  nothing  in  it  to 
agitate  any  one.  I  asked  leave,  however,  to 
look  it  over  in  my  turn ;  and  at  the  very  first 
page  I  opened  I  found  that  the  editor  had  en- 
riched his  small  stock  of  news  by  drawing  upon 
our  family  affairs,  and  had  published  my  sister's 
marriage  engagement,  among  his  other  an- 
nouncements, copied  from  the  London  papers, 


of  Marriages  in  High  Life.  I  concluded  at 
once  that  this  was  the  paragraph  which  had  so 
strangely  affected  Anne  Catherick ;  and  I 
thought  I  saw  in  it,  also,  the  origin  of  the  let- 
ter which  she  sent  to  our  house  tlie  next  day." 
"There  can  be  no  doubt  in  either  case.  But 
what  did  you  hear  about  her  second  attack  of 
faintness  yesterday  evening?" 

"  Nothing.  The  cause  of  it  is  a  complete 
mystery.  There  was  no  stranger  in  the  room. 
The  only  visitor  was  our  dairy-maid,  who,  as  I 
told  you,  is  one  of  Mr.  Todd's  daughters ;  and 
the  only  conversation  was  the  usual  gossip 
about  local  affairs.  They  heard  her  cry  out, 
and  saw  her  turn  deadly  pale,  without  the 
slightest  apparent  reason.  Mrs.  Todd  and  Mrs. 
Clements  took  her  up  stairs,  and  Mrs.  Clements 
remained  with  her.  They  were  heard  talking 
together  until  long  after  the  usual  bedtime  ; 
a7id  early  this  morning  Mrs.  Clements  took 
Mrs.  Todd  aside,  and  amazed  her  beyond  all 
power  of  expression  by  saying  that  they  must 
go.  The  only  explanation  Mrs.  Todd  could  ex- 
tract from  her  guest  was,  that  something  had 
hapjjened,  which  was  not  the  fault  of  any  one 
at  the  farm-house,  but  which  was  serious  enough 
to  make  Anne  Catherick  resolve  to  leave  Lim- 
meridge  immediately.  It  was  quite  useless  to 
press  Mrs.  Clements  to  be  more  explicit.  She 
only  shook  her  head,  and  said  thai,  for  Anne's 
sake,  she  must  beg  and  pray  that  no  one  would 
question  her.  All  she  could  repeat,  with  every 
appearance  of  being  seriously  agitated  herself, 
was  that  Anne  must  go,  that  she  must  go  with 
her.  and  that  the  destination  to  which  they 
might  both  betake  themselves  must  be  kept  a 
secret  from  every  body.  I  spare  you  the  recit- 
al of  Mrs.  Todd's  hospitable  remonstrances  and 
refusals.  It  ended  in  her  driving  them  both  to 
tlie  nearest  station,  more  than  three  hours  since. 
She  tried  hard,  on  the  way,  to  get  them  to 
speak  more  plainly ;  but  without  success.  And 
she  set  them  down  outside  the  station-door, 
so  hurt  and  offended  by  the  unceremonious  ab- 
ruptness of  their  departure  and  their  unfriendly 
reluctance  to  place  the  least  confidence  in  her, 
that  she  drove  away  in  anger,  without  so  much 
as  stopping  to  bid  them  good-by.  That  is  ex- 
actly what  has  taken  place.  Search  your  own 
memory,  Mr.  Hartright,  and  tell  me  if  any  thing 
happened  in  the  burial-ground  yesterday  evening 
which  can  at  all  account  for  the  extraordinary 
departure  of  those  two  women  this  morning." 

"  I  should  like  to  account  first.  Miss  Hal- 
combe, for  the  sudden  change  in  Anne  Cathe- 
rick which  alarmed  them  at  the  farm-house, 
hours  after  she  and  I  had  parted,  and  when 
time  enough  had  elapsed  to  quiet  any  violent 
agitation  that  I  might  have  been  unfortunate 
enough  to  cause.  Did  you  inquire  particularly 
about  the  gossip  which  was  going  on  in  the 
room  when  she  turned  faint?" 

"Yes.  But  Mrs.  Todd's  household  affaii-s 
seem  to  have  divided  her  attention  that  even- 
ing with  the  talk  in  the  farm-house  parlor. 
She  could  only  tell  me  that  it  was  'just  the 
news' — meaning,  I  suppose,  that  they  all  talked 
as  usual  about  each  other." 

"The  dairy-maid's  memory  may  be  better 
than  her  mother's,"  I  said.  "It  may  be  as  well 
for  you  to  speak  to  the  girl,  Miss  Halcombe,  as 
soon  as  we  get  back." 


48 


THE  TTOIIAX  Df  TTHTTE. 


Mv  saggiestkm  was  acted  on  tbe  mamem  we 
retnrned  to  the  house.  Miss  Hakcmbe  led  me  » 
round  to  the  serrants'  (dSces.  and  we  foand  the 
girl  in  the  dairy,  with  her  deeves  tucked  np  to 
her  shodldeis.  cleaning  a  large  nulk-- ir  ir.l 
smging  Uidieh- over  ho-wtsk. 

'* I  hare  hnwgbi  this  genT'rr  "  -  •  — .r 
dairv.  Hannah."  said  Mi55  IZ   .  1:  :5 

one  of  the  sights  of  the  _     -..  iuiti  ii  aiwajs 
does  TOO  credit." 

The  giri  bins!  '^  and  said, 

shrlr,  that  she  L  -  -;?  did  her  best  to 

keep  ihiEg?  nes: 

"We  have  ;  :n  toot  fethers," 

Miss  Halccmbe  -Toa  were  there 

yesterdaT  evening:,  i  hear ;  and  voa  foond  Tisit- 
ors  at  the  ho3se  r" 

"Tes.  Eiiss." 

'•  One  of  them  was  taken  faint  and  ilL  I  am 
told?  I  ssppc^se  ncrhiiig  was  said  or  done  to 
frighten  her?  Tea  were  not  taiVir-|>  of  any 
tbir^  rery  terrible,  were  yon  V 

••  Cft  no.  miss  f  said  the  girl,  laughing.  ~  we 
were  only  talking  of  the  news." 

••Year  sisters  told  you  the  news  at  Tc'dd's 
Corner.  I  surpcse?"' 

*•  Tes.  miss," 

^  And  yoa  told  thera  the  news  at  limmeridge 
HoDse?'* 

**  Tes.  miss.  And  Fm  qnite  sore  nodiing  was 
said  to  firighten  the  poor  thing,  fori  was  talking 
when  ^e  was  taken  iOL  It  gaTe  nig  quite  a 
turn,  miss,  to  see  it,  neTer  hsTii^  been  taken 
&int  myseJf.'* 

Befbxe  any  more  qaesdons  coold  be  potto  her. 
^le  was  called  away  to  leceire  a  basket  cf  e^3 
at  the  dairy  do<H-.  As  she  left  os,  I  whisf«ied 
to  Miss  H^combe, 

■^Ask  her  if  ^e  hapfieiied  to  mentifln,  last 
nig^t.  that  Tisitois  were  e^qiected  at  LiramOM^e 
Hoose.'* 

Miss  Haktxnbe  showed  me.  by  a  look,  diat 
die  nndeistocd.  and  put  the  qiiesti<»  as  soora  as 
die  daiiy-maid  letnmed  to  ns.  I 

"Oh  "yes.  miss :  I  maitioned  diat^"  said  Ae ; 
girl,  simply.     "The  coanpony  coming,  and  the 
accident  to  die  brindkd  cow.  was  all  the  news  I 
had  to  take  to  the  fanaJ' 

'-  Did  yoa  moitioD  names  ?  Did  you  tell 
them  thai  Sr  Perchal  Qyde  was  e:q)ected  on. 
Mondar?'* 

••  Yes.  miss— I  told  lihem  Sir  Peiaral  Glrde 
was  ccming.  I  hope  there  w^s  no  harm  in  it : 
I  hope  I  didn't  do  wrong." 

"  Oh  no.  no  harm.  Come.  Mr.  Hanright ; 
TTawitali  win  besin  to  dnak  ie  in  the  way  if  we 
intermpt  her  any  laeefr  over  her  wnk." 

We  stopped  and  looked  at  one  —odieT  die 
moment  we  woe  akne  again. 

**  Is  tha«  anr  doobt  in  toot  nund  memr.  Miss 
Haktmibe?^     '  *  f 

**  Sir  PerciTal  Ghrde  shall  remoT«  that  doobc. 
Mr.  Hartri^— w  Lama  Fairfie  shaD  never  b-^ 
his  wife." 

nv. 

As  we  walked  rocad  to  the  fk>nt  of  the  h 
a  fly  fiom  the  railway  approached  cs  alon^  :_ 
dxite.    Miss  Haloombe  waited  on  the  door-sier- 


I  Ic-iked  at  him.  when  w« 
to  each  odier,  with  an  intere^  and  a  ciuiohiit 
whidi  I  coold  hardly  conceaL  This  <dd  i»«« 
was  to  remain  at  Linuneridge  House  afterlhad 
left  it ;  he  was  to  hear  Sir  Percrral  Clyde's  ex- 
planation, and  was  to  gixe  3Itss  Halcombe  the 
assistance  of  hb  experience  in  fiannii^  Iier 
jndgmoit :  he  was  to  wait  until  the  qaestian  of 
the  marriage  was  sec  at  rest;  and  hk  hand,  if 
that  qnestitMi  were  decided  in  the  affirmatiTe, 
was  to  draw  the  settlement  whidi  bonnd  IGss 
Fairlie  irreTocafaiy  to  her  ea^igemeaat.  Even 
then,  when  I  knew  nothing  by  caB]MrisoD  widi 
what  I  know  now.IJooked  at  tlie&milT  lawrer 
with  an  interest  which  I  had  nerer  f^t  befece 
in  the  presence  of  any  man  IseaAing  who  was 
a  total  stranger  to  me. 

In  ezaemal  appearance  Mr.  Gibnore  was  die 
exact  opposite  of  the  conTeradoaal  idea  <^  an 
old  lawyer.  His  camfienxm  was  florid;  his 
white  hair  was  worn  r^her  long  and  kefC  care- 
fiilly  bnshed:  hs  black  coa^  waistcaat,  and 
trow^ers.  fitted  bJTn  with  pnfeet  neatness :  his 
white  crarat  was  carefully  tied  ;  and  his  laren- 
der-colored  kid  gknes  mi^it  hare  adooKd  the 
hands  of  a  fashicHiahle  dern^man  ailhut  fear 
and  without  r^aoad.  His  mannas  were  pfcas- 
ani^  maiked  by  the  foi^od  gnee  and  icfine- 
ment  (^  the  oJd  seboid  of  pofiBeness,  qui^^Md 
by  the  inrigondi^  diaipness  and  rea£ness 
of  a  man  whose  boaness  in  life  obliges  him  ak 
wars  to  keep  his  fecidties  in  good  waking  or- 
der. A  sangtdne  cmstitDtioa  and  fiur  pros- 
pects to  begin  widi ;  a  laag  sahsequenl  career 
ai  oteditahle  and  comfurtabfe  probperity ;  a 
cheafoL  difigent,  widely-ie^wcied  old  ^<e — 
soch  were  the  goiexal  impresaaas  I  doriTed 
fitom  my  introdacriim  to  Mr.  Gifanoie ;  and  it  is 
bat  feir  to  him  to  add,  that  die  knovledge  I 
gained  by  later  and  hetuare\pcpenceonlytcnded 
to  cmmrm  diem. 

I  left  the  old  gentleman  and  Miss  Hakombe 
to  ent»'  the  house  together,  and  to  talk  oi  fem- 
ily  matters  vidistaibed  by  the  restraint  of  a 
straiKor's  pxesence.  Ther  crossed  the  hall  oa 
di^w3T-tf?-The  dia*ii^i-room,  and  I  descended 
the  s:.  -  .  z.  ro  wuido'  abont  the  gardea 
alone. 

My  hoars  were  numbered  at  Limmoidge 

E     -    ;  n  ~  • ~:  the  next  moraii^wasiF. 

r^  share  in  the  invcsdgn- 

r.  -  jetier  had  lendeied 

Xo  harm  could  he 
I  Itt  mr  1 
1^1 
ich 

itDok 


E 

w 

El 


and 


Ir 


'•| 


&e:w<. 


THE  WOMAX  IX  WHITE. 


49 


breathed  together  the  warm  fragrance  of  Angnst 
evenings ;  where  we  had  admired  together  the 
myriad  comhinatioiis  of  shade  and  snnlight  that 
dappled  the  groond  at  onr  feet.  The  leares 
fell  about  me  fiom  the  groaning  1»anches,  and 
the  earthv  decav  in  the  atmosphere  chilled  me 
to  the  bones.  A  little  farther  on,  and  I  was 
ont  of  the  gronnds  and  following  the  lane  that 
wound  gentlr  upward  to  the  nearest  hiTla,  The 
old  fielled  tree  by  the  waj?ide,  on  which  we  had 
sat  to  rest,  was  sodden  wiih  rain  ;  and  the  tuft 
of  ferns  and  2rrasses  which  I  had  drawn  far  her, 
nesilinz  under  the  ron^  stone-wall  in  front  of 
us,  had  turned  to  a  pool  of  water  stasnating 
round  an  islet  of  draggled  weeds.  I  gained 
the  summit  of  the  hill  and  looked  at  the  tIcw 
which  we  had  so  often  admired  in  the  hap- 
iHer  time.  It  was  cold  and  barren — it  was  no 
longer  the  view  that  I  remembered.  The  stm- 
shine  of  her  presence  was  far  from  me ;  the 
charm  of  her  voice  no  longer  murmured  in  mv 
ear.  She  had  talked  to  me,  on  the  spot  froin 
which  I  now  look  down,  of  her  father,  who  was 
her  last  smriTing  parent;  had  told  me  how 
fond  cieaA  other  tfaer  had  been,  and  how  sad- 
Ij  she  missed  him  stilL  when  she  entered  cer- 
tain rooms  in  the  house,  and  when  she  took 
■p  fiHg!Otten  occupations  and  amusements  with 
winch  he  had  been  associated.  Was  the  view 
Aai  I  had  seen,  while  lisiening  to  those  words, 
the  -lew  that  I  saw  now,  standing  on  the  hill- 
top bj  mjself  ?  I  turned  and  left  it ;  I  wound 
■tj"  war  back  again,  o^^er  die  moor  and  round 
tii  sandJiills,  down  to  the  beadi.  There  was 
Ae  white  lage  of  the  surC  and  the  multitndin- 
OBS  gkHy  of  die  leaping  wsTes :  but  where  was 
D 


'  the  place  on  which  she  had  once  drawn  idle 
figures  with  her  p.arasol  in  the  sand — the  place 
I  where  we  had  sat  together,  whDe  she  talked  to 
'  me  about  myself  and  my  home,  while  she  ask- 
I  ed  me  a  woman's  minutely  observant  questions 
about  my  mother  and  my  sister,  and  innocently 
wondered  whether  I  should  ever  leave  my  lone- 
ly chambers  and  have  a  wife  and  a  house  of  my 
own  ?  Wind  and  wave  had  long  since  smooth- 
ed out  the  trace  of  her  which  she  had  left  in 
those  marks  on  the  sand.  I  looked  over  the 
wide  monotony  of  the  sea-side  prospect,  and 
the  place  in  which  we  two  had  idled  away  the 
sunny  hours  was  as  lost  to  me  as  if  I  had  never 
known  it — as  strange  to  me  as  if  I  stood  already 
on  a  foreign  shore. 

The  empty  silence  of  the  beach  struck  cold 
to  my  heart.  I  returned  to  the  house  and  the 
garden,  where  traces  were  left  to  speak  of  her 
at  every  turn. 

On  the  west  terrace  walk  I  met  'Sfi.  Gilmore. 
He  was  evidently  in  search  of  me,  for  he  quick- 
ened his  pace  when  we  caught  sight  of  each  oth- 
er. The  state  of  my  spirits  htile  fined  me  for 
the  society  of  a  stranger.  But  the  meeting  was 
inevitable,  and  I  resigned  myself  to  make  the 
best  of  it. 

~Tou  are  the  reiy  person  I  wanted  to  see," 
said  the  old  gentleman.  "I  had  two  words  to 
say  to  yon,  my  dear  Sir,  and  if  you  have  no  ob- 
jection I  will  avail  myseh"  of  the  present  oppor- 
tunity. To  put  it  plainly,  iliss  Halcombe  and 
I  have  been  talking  over  family  affairs — afiairs 
which  are  the  cause  of  my  being  here — and,  in 
the  course  of  our  conversation,  she  was  natural- 
ly led  to  tell  me  of  this  unpleasant  matter  con- 
nected with  the  anonymous  lener,  and  of  the 
share  which  you  have  most  creditably  and  prop- 
erly taken  in  the  proceeding  so  far.  That 
share,  I  qtdte  tmdeisiand.  gives  you  an  interest 
which  you  might  not  otherwise  have  felt  in 
knowing  that  the  future  management  of  the 
investigation,  which  you  have  begun.  wiH  be 
placed  in  safe  hands,  ily  dear  Sir.  make  your- 
i  self  quite  easy  on  that  point — it  will  be  placed 
in  i»g  hands." 

"  Yon  are  in  every  way.  3Ir.  Gihnore,  much 
fitter  to  advise  and  to  act  in  the  matter  than  I 
am.  Is  it  an  indiscretion,  on  my  part,  to  ask 
if  yon  have  decided  yet  on  a  course  (rf  jsooeed- 
ing?' 

••  So  far  as  it  is  possible  to  decide,  3Ir.  Han- 
right.  I  have  decided.  I  mean  to  send  a  copy 
of  the  letter,  accom3)anied  by  a  statement  of  the 
circumstances,  to  Sir  Perdval  Glyde's  solicitor 
in  I/ondon,  with  whom  I  have  some  acquaint- 
ance. The  lener  itself  I  shall  keep  here,  to 
'  show  to  Sir  Pereival  as  soon  as  he  arrives. 
The  tracing  of  the  two  women  I  have  already 
jHorided  for,  by  sending  one  of  Mr.  Fairlie's 
savants — a  coiifidential  person — to  the  station 
to  make  inqtnries :  the  man  has  his  money  and 
his  directions,  and  he  will  follow  the  women  in 
the  event  of  his  finding  any  clew.  This  is  all 
that  can  be  done  until  Sir  Pereival  comes  on 
Monday.  I  have  no  doubt  myself  that  every 
explanation  whidi  can  be  expected  from  a  gen- 
tleman aad  a  man  of  honor  he  will  readily 
give.  Sir  Pereival  stands  very  high.  Sir — an 
eminent  position,  a  reputation  above  suspicion 
!  — ^I  feel  quite  easy  about  results :  quite  easy.  I 
am  reJOTced  to  asstire  you.    Tilings  of  this  sort 


50 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


happen  constantly  in  my  experience.  Anony- 
mous letters — unfortunate  woman — sad  state  of 
society.  I  don't  deny  that  there  are  peculiar 
complications  in  this  case ;  but  the  case  itself 
is,  most  unhappily,  common — common." 

"I  am  afraid,  Mr.  Gilmore,  I  have  the  mis- 
fortune to  differ  from  you  in  the  view  I  take  of 
the  case." 

' '  Just  so,  my  dear  Sir — -just  so.  I  am  an  old 
man,  and  I  take  the  practical  view.  You  are 
a  young  man,  and  you  take  the  romantic  view. 
Let  us  not  dispute  about  our  views.  I  live, 
professionally,  in  an  atmosphere  of  disputation, 
Mr.  Hartright ;  and  I  am  only  too  glad  to  es- 
cape fi-om  it,  as  I  am  escaping  here.  We  will 
wait  for  events — yes,  yes,  yes ;  we  will  wait  for 
events.  Charming  place,  this.  Good  shoot- 
ing ?  Probably  not — none  of  Mr.  Fairlie's  land 
is  preserved,  I  think.  Charming  place,  though  ; 
and  delightful  people.  You  draw  and  paint,  I 
hear,  Mr.  Hartriglit?  Enviable  accomplish- 
ment.    What  style  ?" 

We  dropped  into  general  conversation — or, 
rather,  Mr.  Gilmore  talked,  and  I  listened. 
My  attention  was  far  from  him,  and  from  the 
topics  on  which  he  discoursed  so  fluently.  The 
solitary  walk  of  the  last  two  hours  had  wrought 
its  effect  on  me — it  had  set  the  idea  in  my  mind 
of  hastening  my  departure  from  Limmeridge 
House.  Why  should  I  prolong  the  hard  trial 
of  saying  farewell  by  one  unnecessary  minute  ? 
Wliat  further  service  was  required  of  me  by  any 
one?  There  was  no  useful  purpose  to  be  served 
by  my  stay  in  Cumberland ;  there  was  no  re- 
striction of  time  in  the  permission  to  leave 
which  my  emjjloyer  had  granted  to  me.  Why 
not  end  it,  there  and  then? 

I  determined  to  end  it.  There  were  some 
hours  of  daylight  still  left — there  was  no  reason 
why  my  journey  back  to  London  should  not  be- 
gin on  that  afternoon.  I  made  the  first  civil 
excuse  that  occurred  to  me  for  leaving  Mr.  Gil- 
more ;  and  returned  at  once  to  the  house. 

On  my  way  up  to  my  own  room  I  met  Miss 
Halcombe  on  the  stairs.  She  saw,  by  the  hur- 
ry of  my  movements  and  the  change  in  my 
manner,  that  I  had  some  new  purpose  in  view, 
and  asked  what  had  happened. 

I  told  her  the  reasons  which  induced  me  to 
think  of  hastening  my  departure,  exactly  as  I 
have  told  them  liere. 

"No,  no,"  she  said,  earnestly  and  kindly, 
"  leave  us  like  a  friend  ;  break  bread  with  us 
once  more.  Stay  here  and  dine ;  stay  here  and 
help  us  to  spend  our  last  evening  with  you  as 
happily,  as  like  our  first  evenings,  as  we  can. 
It  is  my  invitation  ;  Mrs.  Vesey's  invitation — " 
she  hesitated  a  little,  and  then  added,  "Laura's 
invitation  as  well." 

I  promised  to  remain.  God  knows  I  had  no 
wish  to  leave  even  the  shadow  of  a  sorrowful 
impression  with  any  one  of  tliem. 

My  own  room  was  the  best  place  for  me  till 
the  dinner-bell  rang.  I  waited  there  till  it  was 
time  to  go  down  stairs. 

I  had  not  spoken  to  Miss  Fairlie — I  had  not 
even  seen  her — all  that  day.  The  first  meeting 
with  her,  when  I  entered  the  drawing-room, 
was  a  hard  trial  to  lier  self-control  and  to  mine. 
She,  too,  had  done  her  best  to  make  our  last 
evening  renew  the  golden  by-gone  time — tlie 
time  that  could  never  come  again.     She  had 


put  on  the  dress  which  I  used  to  admire  more 
than  any  other  that  she  possessed — a  dark-blue 
silk,  trimmed  quaintly  and  prettily  with  old- 
fashioned  lace  ;  she  came  forward  to  meet  me 
with  her  former  readiness ;  she  gave  me  her 
hand  with  the  frank,  innocent  good-will  of  hap- 
pier days.  The  cold  fingers  that  trembled 
round  mine  ;  the  pale  cheeks  with  a  bright  red 
spot  burning  in  the  midst  of  them;  the  faint 
smile  that  struggled  to  live  on  her  lips,  and  died 
away  from  them  while  I  looked  at  it,  told  me 
at  what  sacrifice  of  herself  her  outward  compo- 
sure was  maintained.  My  heart  could  take  her 
no  closer  to  me,  or  I  should  have  loved  her  then 
as  I  had  never  loved  her  yet. 

Mr.  Gilmore  was  a  great  assistance  to  us. 
He  was  in  high  good-humor,  and  he  led  the 
conversation  with  unflagging  spirit.  Miss  Hal- 
combe seconded  him  resolutely  ;  and  I  did  all  I 
could  to  follow  her  example.  The  kind  blue 
eyes,  whose  slightest  changes  of  expression  I 
had  learned  to  interpret  so  well,  looked  at  me 
appealingly  when  we  first  sat  down  to  table. 
Help  my  sister — the  sweet  anxious  face  seemed 
to  say — hel])  my  sister,  and  you  will  help  me. 

We  got  through  the  dinner,  to  all  outward 
appearance  at  least,  happily  enough.  When 
the  ladies  had  risen  from  table,  and  when  Mr. 
Gilmore  and  I  were  left  alone  in  the  dining- 
room,  a  new  interest  presented  itself  to  occupy 
our  attention,  and  to  give  me  an  opportunity 
of  quieting  myself  by  a  few  minutes  of  need- 
ful and  welcome  silence.  The  servant  who 
had  been  dispatched  to  trace  Anne  Catherick 
and  Mrs.  Clements  returned  with  his  report, 
and  was  shown  into  the  dining-room  imme- 
diately. 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Gilmore,  "what  have  you 
found  out?" 

"  I  have  found  out.  Sir,"  answered  the  man, 
"  that  both  the  women  took  tickets  at  our  sta- 
tion here  for  Carlisle." 

"You  went  to  Carlisle,  of  course,  when  vou 
heard  that  ?" 

"  I  did,  Sir ;  but  I  am  sorry  to  say  I  coulJ 
find  no  farther  trace  of  them." 

"  You  inquired  at  the  railway  ?" 

"Yes,  Sir." 

"  And  at  the  different  inns  ?" 

"Yes,  Sir." 

"  And  you  left  the  statement  I  wrote  for  you 
at  the  police-station  ?" 

"  I  did.  Sir." 

"  Well,  my  friend,  you  have  done  all  you 
could,  and  I  have  done  all  I  could ;  and  there 
the  matter  must  rest  till  further  notice.  We 
have  j)layed  our  trumj)  cards,  Mr.  Hartright," 
continued  the  old  gentleman,  when  the  servant 
had  withdrawn.  "  For  the  present,  at  least,  the 
women  have  outmanojuvred  us ;  and  our  only 
resource  now  is  to  wait  till  Sir  Percival  Glyde 
comes  here  on  Monday  next.  Won't  you  fill 
your  glass  again  ?  Good  bottle  of  port,  that — 
sound,  substantial  old  wine.  I  have  got  better 
in  my  own  cellar,  thougli." 

We  returned  to  the  drawing-room — the  room 
in  which  the  happiest  evenings  of  my  life  had 
been  passed;  the  room  which,  after  this  last 
night,  I  was  never  to  see  again.  Its  aspect  was 
altered  since  the  days  had  sliortened  aild  the 
weather  had  grown  cold.  The  glass  doors  on 
the  terrace  side  were  closed,  and  hidden  by  thick 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE, 


51 


curtains.  Instead  of  the  soft  twilight  obscurity, 
in  which  we  used  to  sit,  the  bright  radiant  glow 
of  lamplight  now  dazzled  my  eyes.  All  was 
changed— indoors  and  out,  all  was  changed. 

Miss  Halcombe  and  Mr.  Gilmore  sat  down 
together  at  the  card-table  ;  Mrs.  Vesey  took  her 
customary  chair.  There  was  no  restraint  on 
the  disposal  of  their  evening;  and  I  felt  the  re- 
straint on  the  disposal  of  mine  all  the  more 
painfully  from  observing  it.  I  saw  Miss  Fairlie 
lingering  near  the  music-stand.  The  time  had 
been  when  I  might  have  joined  her  there.  I 
waited  irresolutely — I  knew  neither  where  to  go 
nor  what  to  do  next.  She  cast  one  quick  glance 
at  me,  took  a  piece  of  music  suddenly  from  the 
stand,  and  came  toward  me  of  her  own  accord. 

"Shall  I  play  some  of  those  little  melodies 
of  Mozart's  which  you  used  to  like  so  much  ?" 
she  asked,  opening  the  music  nervously,  and 
looking  down  at  it  while  she  spoke. 

Before  I  could  thank  her  she  hastened  to  the 
piano.  The  chair  near  it,  which  I  had  always 
been  accustomed  to  occui)y,  stood  empty.  She 
struck  a  few  chords — then  glanced  round  at  me 
— then  looked  back  again  at  her  music. 

"Won't  you  take  your  old  place?"  she  said, 
speaking  very  abruptly,  and  in  very  low  tones. 

"  I  may  take  it  on  the  last  night,"  I  answered. 

She  did  not  reply:  she  kept  her  attention 
riveted  on  the  music — music  which  she  knew 
by  memory,  which  she  had  played  over  and 
over  again,  in  former  times,  without  the  book. 
I  only  knew  that  she  had  heard  me,  I  only  knew 
that  she  was  aware  of  ray  being  close  to  her,  by 
seeing  the  i-ed  spot  on  the  cheek  that  was  near- 
est to  me  fade  out,  and  the  face  grow  pale  all 
over. 

"I  am  very  sorry  you  are  going,"  she  said, 
her  voice  almost  sinking  to  a  whisper ;  her  eyes 
looking  more  and  more  intently  at  the  music ; 
her  fingers  flying  over  the  keys  of  the  piano  with 
a  strange  feverish  energy  which  I  had  never  no- 
ticed in  her  before. 

"I  shall  remember  tliose  kind  words.  Miss 
Eairlie,  long  after  to-morrow  has  come  and 
gone." 

The  paleness  grew  whiter  on  her  face,  and 
she  turned  it  farther  away  from  me. 

"Don't  speak  of  to-morrow,"  she  said.  "Let 
the  music  speak  to  us  of  to-night  in  a  happier 
language  than  ours." 

Her  lips  trembled — a  faint  sigh  fluttered  from 
them,  which  she  tried  vainly  to  suppress.  Her 
fingers  wavered  on  the  piano  ;  she  struck  a  false 
note ;  confused  herself  in  trying  to  set  it  right ; 
and  dropped  her  hands  angrily  on  her  lap.  Miss 
Halcombe  and  Mr.  Gilmore  looked  up  in  as- 
tonishment ft-om  the  card-table  at  which  tliey 
were  playing.  Even  Mrs.  Vesey,  dozing  in  her 
chair,  woke  at  the  sudden  cessation  of  the 
music,  and  inquired  what  had  happened. 

"You  play  at  whist,  Mr.  Hartright?"  asked 
Miss  Halcombe,  with  her  eyes  directed  signifi- 
cantly at  the  ]dace  I  occupied. 

I  knew  what  she  meant ;  I  knew  she  was 
right ;  and  I  rose  at  once  to  go  to  the  card-table. 
As  I  left  the  piano  Miss  Fairlie  turned  a  page 
of  the  music,  and  touched  the  keys  again  with 
a  surer  hand. 

"I  luill  ]jlay  it,"  she  said,  striking  the  notes 
almost  passionately.  "  I  will  play  it  on  the  last 
niirbt." 


"Come,  Mrs.  Vesey,"  said  Miss  Halcombe; 
"  Mr.  Gilmore  and  I  are  tired  of  ecarte — come 
and  be  Mr.  Hartright's  partner  at  whist." 

The  old  lawyer  smiled  satirically.  His  had 
been  the  winning  hand ;  and  he  had  just  turned 
up  a  king.  He  evidently  attributed  Miss  Hal- 
combe's  abrupt  change  in  the  card-table  arrange- 
ments to  a  lady's  inability  to  play  the  losing 
game. 

The  rest  of  the  evening  passed  without  a  word 
or  a  look  from  her.  She  kept  her  place  at  the 
piano ;  and  I  kept  mine  at  the  card-table.  She 
played  unintermittingly — played  as  if  the  music 
was  her  only  refuge  from  herself.  Sometimes 
her  fingers  touched  the  notes  with  a  lingering 
fondness,  a  soft,  plaintive,  dying  tenderness, 
unutterably  beautiful  and  mournful  to  hear — 
sometimes  they  faltered  and  failed  her,  or  hur- 
ried over  the  instrument  mechanically,  as  if 
their  task  was  a  burden  to  them.  But  ^till, 
change  and  waver  as  they  might  in  the  expres- 
sion they  imparted  to  the  music,  their  resolution 
to  play  never  faltered.  She  only  rose  from  the 
piano  when  we  all  rose  to  say  good-night. 

Mrs.  Vesey  was  the  nearest  to  the  door,  and 
the  first  to  shake  hands  with  me. 

"I  shall  not  see  you  again,  Mr.  Hartright," 
said  the  old  lady.  "I  am  truly  soi-ry  you  are 
going  away.  You  have  been  very  kind  and  at- 
tentive, and  an  old  woman  like  me  feels  kind- 
ness and  attention.  I  wish  you  happy.  Sir — I 
wish  you  a  kind  good-by." 

Mr.  Gilmore  came  next. 

"I  hope  we  shall  have  a  futni'e  opportunity 
of  bettering  our  acquaintance,  Mr.  Hartright. 
You  quite  understand  about  that  little  matter  of 
business  being  safe  in  my  hands  ?  Yes,  yes,  of 
course.  Bless  me,  how  cold  it  is !  Don't  let 
me  keep  you  at  the  door.  Bon  voyage,  my  dear 
Sir — bon  voyage,  as  the  French  say." 

Miss  Halcombe  followed. 

"  Half  past  seven  to-morrow  morning,"  she 
said;  then  added,  in  a  whisper;  "I  have  heard 
and  seen  more  than  you  think.  Your  conduct 
to-night  has  made  me  your  friend  for  life." 

Miss  Fairlie  came  last.  I  could  not  trust  my- 
self to  look  at  her  when  I  took  her  hand,  and 
when  I  thought  of  the  next  morning. 

"My  departure  must  be  a  very  early  one," 
I  said.  "  I  shall  be  gone,  Miss  Fairlie,  before 
you-" 

"No,  no,"  she  interposed,  hastily;  "not  be- 
fore I  am  out  of  my  room.  I  shall  be  down  to 
breakfast  with  Marian.  I  am  not  so  ungrateful, 
not  so  forgetful  of  the  past  three  months — " 

Her  voice  failed  her;  her  hand  closed  gently 
round  mine — then  dropped  it  suddenly.  Before 
I  could  say  "Good-night"  she  was  gone. 

The  end  comes  fast  to  meet  me — comes  in- 
evitably, as  the  light  of  the  last  morning  came 
at  Limmeridge  House. 

It  was  barely  half  past  seven  when  I  went 
down  stairs,  but  I  found  them  both  at  the  break- 
fast-table waiting  for  me.  In  the  chill  air,  in 
the  dim  light,  in  the  gloomy  morning  silence  of 
the  house,  we  three  sat  down  together,  and  tried 
to  eat,  tried  to  talk.  The  struggle  to  preserve 
appearances  was  hopeless  and  useless,  and  I  rose 
to  end  it. 

As  I  held  out  my  hand,  as  Miss  Halcombe, 
who  was  nearest  to  me,  took  it,  Miss  Fairiic 


52 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


~"'^']d9i?Br''        '  i'liill  Jfc 


■JIY   HEAD   DROOPED   OVER    IT,   3IY    TEARS    FELL    ON   IT,    MY    LIPS    PRESSED    IT,"  ETC. 


turned  away  suddenly  and  hurried  from  the 
room. 

"Better  so,"  said  Miss  Halcombe,  when  the 
door  had  closed — "better  so,  for  you  and  for 
her." 

I  waited  a  moment  before  I  could  speak — it 
was  hard  to  lose  her,  without  a  parting  word  or 
a  parting  look.  I  controlled  myself;  I  tried  to 
take  leave  of  Miss  Halcombe  in  fitting  terms ; 
but  all  the  farewell  words  I  would  fain  have 
spoken  dwindled  to  one  sentence. 

"Have  I  deserved  that  you  should  write  to 
me  ?"  was  all  I  could  say. 

"You  have  nobly  deserved  every  thing  that  I 
can  do  for  you,  as  long  as  we  both  live.  What- 
ever the  end  is,  you  shall  know  it." 

"And  if  I  can  ever  be  of  help  again  at  any 
future  time,  long  after  the  memory  of  my  pre- 
sumption and  folly  is  forgotten — " 

I  could  add  no  more.  My  voice  faltered,  my 
eyes  moistened,  in  s])itc  of  me. 

She  caught  me  by  both  hands — she  pressed 
them  with  the  strong,  steady  grasp  of  a  man — 
her  dark  eyes  glittered — her  brown  complexion 
flushed  dceji — the  force  and  energy  of  her  face 
glowed  and  grew  beautiful  with  the  pure  inner 
liglit  of  lier  generosity  and  lier  pity. 

"  I  will  trust  you — if  ever  the  time  comes,  I 


will  trust  you  as  my  friend  and  her  friend;  as 
mij  brother  and  lier  brother."  She  stopped; 
drew  me  nearer  to  her — the  fearless,  noble 
creature — tone  bed  my  forehead,  sister-like,  with 
her  lips ;  and  called  me  by  my  Christian  name. 
"God  bless  you,  Walter,"  she  said.  "Wait 
here  alone,  and  compose  yourself — I  had  better 
not  stay  for  both  our  sakes ;  I  had  better  see 
you  go  from  the  balcony  up  stairs." 

She  left  the  room.  I  turned  away  toward  the 
window,  where  nothing  faced  me  but  the  lonely 
autumn  landscape — I  turned  away  to  master 
myself,  before  I,  too,  left  the  room  in  my  turn, 
and  left  it  forever. 

A  minute  passed — it  could  hardly  have  been 
more — when  I  heard  the  door  open  again  softly ; 
and  the  rustling  of  a  woman's  dress  on  the  car- 
pet moved  toward  me.  My  heart  beat  violent- 
ly as  I  turned  round.  JVIiss  Fairlie  was  ap- 
proaching me  from  the  farther  end  of  the 
room. 

She  stojjped  and  hesitated  when  our  eyes 
met,  and  when  she  saw  that  we  were  alone. 
Then,  with  that  courage  which  women  lose  so 
often  in  the  small  emergency,  and  so  seldom  in 
the  groat,  she  came  on  nearer  to  me,  strangely 
pale  and  strangely  quiet,  drawing  one  hand  after 
her  along  the  table  by  whicli  she  walked,  and 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


53 


holding   something   at  her  side  in  the  other, 
which  was  hidden  by  the  folds  of  lier  dress. 

"I  only  went  into  the  drawing-room,"  she 
said,  "to  look  for  this.  It  may  remind  you 
of  your  visit  here,  and  of  the  friends  you  leave 
behind  you.  You  told  me  I  had  imjsroved  very 
much  when  I  did  it — and  I  thought  you  might 
like—" 

She  turned  her  head  away,  and  offered  me  a 
little  sketch  drawn  throughout  by  her  own  pen- 
cil, of  the  summer-house  in  which  we  had  first 
met.  The  paper  trembled  in  her  hand  as  she 
held  it  out  to  me — trembled  in  mine  as  I  took 
it  from  her. 

I  was  afraid  to  say  what  I  felt — I  only  an- 
swered :  "  It  shall  never  leave  me ;  all  my  life- 
long it  shall  be  the  treasure  that  I  ])rize  most. 
I  am  very  grateful  for  it — very  grateful  to  you, 
for  not  letting  me  go  away  without  bidding  you 
good-by." 

"Oh!"  she  said,  innocently,  "how  could  I 
let  you  go,  after  we  have  passed  so  many  happy 
days  together!" 

"  Those  days  may  never  return  again.  Miss 
Fairlie — my  way  of  life  and  yom-s  are  very  far 
apart.  But  if  a  time  should  come  when  the  de- 
votion of  my  whole  heart  and  soul  and  strength 
will  give  3'ou  a  moment's  happiness  or  spare  you 
a  moment's  sorrow,  will  you  try  to  remember 
the  poor  drawing-master  who  has  taught  you  ? 
Miss  Halcombe  has  promised  to  trust  me — will 
you  promise,  too  ?" 

The  farewell  sadness  in  the  kind  blue  eyes 
shone  dimly  through  her  gathering  tears. 

"I  promise  it,"  she  said,  in  broken  tones. 
"  Oh,  don't  look  at  me  like  that !  I  promise  it 
with  all  my  heart." 

I  ventured  a  little  nearer  to  her,  and  held  out 
my  hand. 

"You  have  many  friends  who  love  you.  Miss 
Fairlie.     Your  happy  future  is  the  dear  object 
of  many  hopes.     May  I  say,  at  parting,  that  it  i 
is  the  dear  object  of  my  hopes  too  ?"  | 

Tlie  tears  flowed  fast  down  her  cheeks.     She  | 
rested  one  trembling  hand  on  the  table  to  steady  ■ 
herself,  while  she  gave  me  the  other.     I  took  it  \ 
in  mine — I  held  it  fast.     My  head  drooped  over 
it,  my  tears  fell  on  it,  my  lips  pressed  it — not  in 
love ;  oh,  not  in  love,  at  that  last  moment,  but  in 
the  agony  and  the  self-abandonment  of  despair. 

"For  God's  sake,  leave  me!"  she  said,  faint-  : 

ly-  i 

The  confession  of  her  heart's  secret  burst  from 
her  in  those  pleading  words.     I  had  no  riglit  to 
hear  them,  no  right  to  answer  them  :  they  were 
the  words  that  banished  me,  in  the  name  of  her  | 
sacred  weakness,  from  the  room.     It  was  all  ! 
over.     1  dro]iped  her  hand;  I  said  no  more,  i 
The  blinding  tears  shnt  her  out  from  my  eyes, 
and  I  dashed  them  away  to  look  at  her  for  the 
last  time.     One  look,  as  she  sank  into  a  chair,  j 
as  her  arms  fell  on  the  table,  as  her  fair  head  ' 
dropped  on  them  wearily.     One  farewell  look; 
and  the  door  had  closed  on  her — the  great  gulf  j 
of  separation  had  opened  between  us — the  im- 
age of  Laura  Fairlie  was  a  memory  of  the  past 
already. 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  VINCENT  GIL- 
jMORE,  SOLICITOR,  OF  CHANCERY- 
LANE,  LONDON. 

I. 

I  WRITE  these  lines  at  the  request  of  my 
friend,  Mr.  Walter  Hartright.  They  are  in- 
tended to  convey  a  description  of  certain  events 
which  seriously  affected  Miss  Fairlie's  interests, 
and  which  took  place  after  the  period  of  Mr. 
Hartright's  departure  from  Limmeridge  House. 

There  is  no  need  for  me  to  say  whether  my 
own  opinion  does  or  does  not  sanction  the  dis- 
closure of  the  remarkable  family  story,  of  which 
my  narrative  forms  an  imjiortant  component 
part.  Mr.  Hartright  has  taken  that  responsi- 
bility on  himself;  and  circumstances  j'ct  to  be 
related  will  show  that  he  has  amply  earned  the 
right  to  do  so,  if  he  chooses  to  exercise  it.  The 
plan  he  has  adopted  for  presenting  the  story  to 
others,  in  the  most  truthful  and  most  vivid  man- 
ner, requires  that  it  should  be  told,  at  each  suc- 
cessive stage  in  the  march  of  events,  by  the  per- 
sons who  were  directly  concerned  in  those  events 
at  the  time  of  their  occurrence.  My  appear- 
ance here,  as  narrator,  is  the  necessary  conse- 
quence of  this  arrangement.  I  was  present  dur- 
ing the  sojourn  of  Sir  Percival  Glyde  in  Cum- 
berland, and  was  personally  concerned  in  one 
important  result  of  his  short  residence  under 
Mr.  Fairlie's  roof.  It  is  my  duty,  therefore,  to 
add  these  new  links  to  the  chain  of  events,  and 
to  take  up  the  chain  itself  at  the  point  where,  for 
the  present  onlj'',  Mr.  Hartright  has  dropped  it. 

I  arrived  at  Limmeridge  House,  on  a  Friday 
in  the  week,  either  at  the  end  of  October  or  the 
beginning  of  November — it  is  not  material  to 
my  present  purpose  to  say  precisely  which. 

My  object  was  to  remain  at  Mr.  Fairlie's  until 
the  arrival  of  Sir  Percival  Glyde.  If  that  event 
led  to  the  appointment  of  any  given  day  for  Sir 
Percival's  union  with  Miss  Fairlie,  I  was  to  take 
the  necessary  instructions  back  with  me  to  Lon- 
don, and  to  occupy  myself  in  drawing  the  lady's 
marriage  settlement. 

On  the  Friday  I  was  not  favored  by  Mr.  Fair- 
lie  with  an  interview.  He  had  been,  or  had 
fancied  himself  to  be,  an  invalid  for  years  past ; 
and  he  was  not  well  enough  to  receive  me. 
Miss  Halcombe  was  the  first  member  of  the 
family  whom  I  saw.  She  met  me  at  the  house- 
door  ;  and  introduced  me  to  Mr.  Hartright,  who 
had  been  staying  at  Limmeridge  for  some  time 
past. 

I  did  not  see  Miss  Fairlie  until  later  in  the 
day  at  dinner-time.  She  was  not  looking  M'ell, 
and  I  was  sorry  to  observe  it.  She  is  a  sweet, 
lovable  girl,  as  amiable  and  attentive  to  every 
one  about  her  as  her  excellent  mother  used  to 
be — though,  personally  speaking,  she  takes  after 
her  father.  Mrs.  Fairlie  had  dark  eyes  and 
hair;  and  her  elder  daughter.  Miss  Halcombe, 
strongly  reminds  me  of  her.  Miss  Fairlie  played 
to  us  in  the  evening — not  so  well  as  usual,  I 
thought.  We  had  a  rubber  at  whist ;  a  mere 
profanation,  so  far  as  play  was  concerned,  of 
that  noble  game.  I  had  been  favorably  im- 
pressed by  Mr.  Hartright  on  our  first  introduc- 
tion to  one  another ;  but  I  soon  discovered  that 
he  was  not  free  from  the  social  failings  inci- 
dental to  his  age.     There  are  three  things  that 


54 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


none  of  the  young  men  of  the  present  generation 
can  do.  They  can't  sit  over  their  wine;  they 
can't  pLay  at  whist;  and  they  can't  pay  a  hidy 
a  compliment.  Mr.  Hartright  was  no  exception 
to  the  general  rule.  Otherwise,  even  in  those 
early  days  and  on  that  short  acquaintance,  he 
struck  me  as  being  a  modest  and  gentleman- 
like young  man. 

So  the  Friday  passed.  I  say  nothing  about 
the  more  serious  matters  which  engaged  my  at- 
tention on  that  day — the  anonymous  letter  to 
Miss  Fairlie ;  the  measures  I  thought  it  right  to 
adopt  when  the  matter  was  mentioned  to  me ; 
and  the  conviction  I  entertained  that  every  pos- 
sible explanation  of  the  circumstances  would  be 
readily  atibrded  by  Sir  Percival  Glyde,  having 
all  been  fully  noticed,  as  I  understand,  in  the 
narrative  which  precedes  this. 

On  the  Saturday  Mr.  Hartright  had  left  be- 
fore I  got  down  to  breakfast.  Miss  Fairlie  kept 
her  room  all  day ;  and  Miss  Halcombe  appeared 
to  me  to  be  out  of  si)irits.  The  house  was  not 
what  it  used  to  be  in  the  time  of  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Philip  Fairlie.  I  took  a  walk  by  myself  in  the 
forenoon  ;  and  looked  about  at  some  of  the 
places  which  I  first  saw  when  I  was  staying  at 
Limmeridge  to  transact  family  business,  more 
than  thirty  years  since.  They  were  not  what 
they  used  to  be  either. 

At  two  o'clock  Mr.  Fairlie  sent  to  say  he  was 
well  enough  to  see  me.  He  had  not  altered,  at 
any  rate,  since  I  first  knew  him.  His  talk  was 
to  the  same  purpose  as  usual — all  about  himself 
and  his  ailments,  his  wonderful  coins,  and  his 
matchless  Rembrandt  etchings.  The  moment  I 
tried  to  speak  of  the  business  that  had  brought 
me  to  his  house  he  shut  his  eyes  and  said  I 
•'  upset"  hira.  I  persisted  in  upsetting  him  by 
retui'uing  again  and  again  to  the  subject.  All  I 
could  ascertain  was  that  he  looked  on  his  niece's 
marriage  as  a  settled  thing,  that  her  father  had 
sanctioned  it,  that  he  sanctioned  it  himself,  that 
it  was  a  desirable  mai-riage,  and  that  he  should 
be  personally  rejoiced  when  the  worry  of  it  was 
over.  As  to  the  settlement,  if  I  would  consult 
his  niece,  and  afterward  dive  as  deeply  as  I 
pleased,  into  my  own  knowledge  of  the  family 
affairs,  and  get  every  thing  ready,  and  limit  his 
share  in  the  business,  as  guardian,  to  saying 
Yes  at  the  right  moment — why,  of  course,  he 
would  meet  my  views,  and  every  body  else's 
views,  with  infinite  pleasure.  In  the  mean 
time,  there  I  saw  him,  a  heljiless  sufi'erer,  con- 
fined to  his  room.  Did  I  think  he  looked  as  if 
he  wanted  teasing?  No.  Then  why  tease 
him? 

I  might,  perhaps,  have  been  a  little  astonished 
at  this  extraordinary  absence  of  all  self-assertion 
on  Mr.  Fairlie's  part,  in  the  character  of  guar- 
dian, if  my  knowledge  of  the  family  affairs  had 
not  been  sufficient  to  remind  me  that  he  was  a 
single  man,  and  that  he  had  nothing  more  timn 
a  life-interest  in  the  Limmeridge  ])roperty.  As 
matters  stood,  therefore,  I  was  neither  surprised 
nor  disa]ipointed  at  the  result  of  the  interview. 
Mr.  Fairlie  had  simply  justified  my  exjjectations 
— and  there  was  an  end  of  it. 

Sunday  was  a  dull  day,  out  of  doors  and  in, 
A  letter  arrived  for  me  from  Sir  Percival  Glyde's 
solicitor,  acknowledging  the  receijjt  of  my  copy 
of  the  anonymous  letter,  and  my  accompanying 
statement  of  the  case.     Miss  Fairlie  joined  us  in 


the  afternoon,  looking  pale  and  depressed,  and 
altogether  unlike  herself.  I  had  some  talk  with 
her,  and  ventured  on  a  delicate  allusion  to  Sir 
Percival.  She  listened,  and  said  nothing.  All 
other  subjects  she  pursued  willingly,  but  this 
subject  she  allowed  to  drop.  I  began  to  doubt 
whether  she  might  not  be  repenting  of  her  en- 
gagement— just  as  young  ladies  often  do,  when 
repentance  comes  too  late. 

On  Monday  Sir  Percival  Glyde  arrived. 
I  found  him  to  be  a  most  prepossessing  man, 
so  far  as  manners  and  appearance  were  con- 
cerned. He  looked  rather  older  than  I  had  ex^ 
pected ;  his  head  being  bald  over  the  forehead, 
and  his  face  somewhat  marked  and  worn.  But 
his  movements  vi'cre  as  active  and  his  spirits  as 
high  as  a  young  man's.  His  meeting  Avith  Miss 
Halcombe  was  delightfully  hearty  and  unaffect- 
ed; and  his  reception  of  me,  upon  my  being 
presented  to  him,  was  so  easy  and  pleasant  that 
we  got  on  together  like  old  friends.  Miss  Fair- 
lie  was  not  with  us  when  he  arrived,  but  she 
entered  the  room  about  ten  minutes  afterward. 
Sir  Percival  rose  and  paid  his  compliments  with 
perfect  grace.  His  evident  concern  on  seeing 
the  change  for  the  worse  in  the  young  lady's 
looks  was  expressed  with  a  mixture  of  tender- 
ness and  respect,  with  an  unassuming  delicacy 
of  tone,  voice,  and  manner,  which  did  equal 
credit  to  his  good  breeding  and  his  good  sense. 
I  was  rather  surprised,  under  these  circum- 
stances, to  see  that  Miss  Fairlie  continued  to  be 
constrained  and  uneasy  in  his  presence,  and 
that  she  took  the  first  opportunity  of  leaving  the 
room  again.  Sir  Percival  neither  noticed  the 
restraint  in  her  reception  of  him,  nor  her  sud- 
den withdrawal  from  our  society.  He  had  not 
obtruded  his  attentions  on  her  while  she  was 
present,  and  he  did  not  embarrass  Miss  Hal- 
combe by  any  allusion  to  her  departure  when 
she  was  gone.  His  tact  and  taste  were  never 
at  fault  on  this  or  on  any  other  occasion  while 
I  was  in  his  company  at  Limmeridge  House. 

As  soon  as  Miss  Fairlie  had  left  the  room  he 
spared  us  all  embarrassment  on  the  subject  of 
the  anonymous  letter  by  adverting  to  it  of  his 
own  accord.  He  had  stopped  in  London  on  his 
way  from  Hampshire;  had  seen  his  solicitor; 
had  read  the  documents  forwarded  by  me ;  and 
had  traveled  on  to  Cumberland,  anxious  to  sat- 
isfy our  minds  by  the  speediest  and  the  fullest 
explanation  that  words  can  convey.  On  hear- 
ing him  ex]iress  himself  to  this  eftect,  I  offered 
him  the  original  letter  which  I  had  kept  for  his 
inspection.  He  thanked  me,  and  declined  to 
look  at  it ;  saying  that  he  had  seen  the  copy, 
and  that  he  was  quite  willing  to  leave  the  orig- 
inal in  our  hands. 

The  statement  itself,  on  which  he  immediate- 
ly entered,  was  as  simple  and  satisfactory  as  I 
had  all  along  anticipated  it  would  be. 

Mrs.  Catherick,  he  informed  us,  had,  in  past 
years,  laid  him  under  some  obligations  for  faith- 
ful services  rendered  to  his  family  connections 
and  to  himself.  She  had  been  doubly  unfortu- 
nate in  being  married  to  a  husband  who  had 
deserted  her,  and  in  having  an  (uily  child  whose 
mental  faculties  had  been  in  a  disturbed  condi- 
tion from  a  very  early  age.  Although  her  mar- 
riage had  removed  her  to  a  part  of  IIam]ishire 
far  distant  from  the  neighborhood  in  which  Sir 
Percival's  projierty  was  situated,  he  had  taken 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


ji> 


llili 


■«  -' : 


I,,  nil; 


I  ji'ji!i„i 


THE    LITTLE    BEAST,   COWARDLY    AND    CROSS-CxRAINED   AS    PET    DOGS    USUALLY    ARE,  LOOKED    Ul^ 

SHARPLY,"  ETC. 


care  not  to  lose  sight  of  her ;  his  friendly  feeling 
toward  the  poor  woman,  in  consideration  of  her 
past  services,  having  been  greatly  strengthened 
by  his  admiration  of  the  patience  and  courage 
with  which  she  supported  her  calamities.  In 
eonrse  of  time,  the  symptoms  of  mental  affliction 
\n  her  unhappy  daughter  increased  to  such  a 
serious  extent,  as  to  make  it  a  matter  of  neces- 
sity to  place  her  xmder  proper  medical  care. 
Mrs.  Catherick  herself  recognized  this  neces- 
sity; but  she  also  felt  the  prejudice  common 
to  persons  occupying  her  respectable  station, 
against  allowing  her  child  to  be  admitted,  as  a 
pauper,  into  a  public  Asylum.  Sir  Percival  had 
respected  this  prejudice,  as  he  respected  honest 
independence  of  feeling  in  any  rank  of  life ;  and 
had  resolved  to  mark  his  grateful  sense  of  Mrs. 
Catherick's  early  attachment  to  the  interests  of 
himself  and  his  family,  by  defraying  the  expense 
of  her  daughter's  maintenance  in  a  trust-worthy 
private  Asylum.  To  her  mother's  regret  and  to 
his  own  regret,  the  unfortunate  creature  had 
discovered  the  share  which  circumstances  had 
induced  him  to  take  in  placing  her  under  re- 
straint, and  had  conceived  the  most  intense  ha- 
tred and  distrust  of  him  in  consequence.     To 


that  hatred  and  distrust — which  had  expressed 
itself  in  various  ways  in  the  Asylum — the  anon- 
ymous letter  written,  after  her  escape,  was  plain- 
ly attributable.  If  Miss  Halcombe's  or  Mr.  Gil- 
more's  recollection  of  the  document  did  not 
confirm  that  view,  or  if  they  wished  for  any 
additional  particulars  about  the  Asylum  (the 
address  of  which  he  mentioned,  as  well  as  the 
names  and  addresses  of  the  two  doctors  on 
whose  certificates  the  patient  was  admitted),  he 
was  ready  to  answer  any  question  and  to  clear 
up  any  uncertainty.  He  had  done  his  duty  to 
the  unhappy  young  woman,  by  instructing  his 
solicitor  to  spare  no  expense  in  tracing  her,  and 
in  restoring  her  once  more  to  medical  care  ;  and 
he  was  now  only  anxious  to  do  his  duty  toward 
Miss  Fairlie  and  toward  her  family,  in  the  same 
plain,  straightforward  way. 

I  was  the  first  to  speak  in  answer  to  this  ap- 
peal. My  own  course  was  plain  to  me.  It  is 
the  great  beauty  of  the  Law  that  it  can  dispute 
any  human  statement,  made  under  any  circum- 
stances, and  reduced  to  any  form.  If  I  had  felt 
professionally  called  upon  to  set  up  a  case  against 
Sir  Percival  Glyde,  on  the  strength  of  his  own 
explanation,  I  could  have  done  so  beyond  all 


66 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


-IV—. 


,!v-iii }  I 


°N 


"  MISS    HALCOMBE    WAS    NOT    LONG    IN    AVRITING    THE    NOTE." 


doubt.  But  my  duty  did  not  lie  in  this  direc- 
tion: my  function  was  of  the  purely  judicial 
kind.  I  was  to  weigh  the  explanation  we  had 
just  heard ;  to  allow  all  due  force  to  the  high 
reputation  of  the  gentleman  who  offered  it ;  and 
to  decide  honestly  whether  the  probabilities,  on 
Sir  Percival's  own  showing,  were  plainly  with 
him,  or  plainly  against  him.  My  own  convic- 
tion was  that  they  were  plainly  with  him  ;  and  I 
accordingly  declared  that  his  ex]jlanation  was, 
to  my  mind,  unquestionably  a  satisfactory  one. 

Miss  Halcombe,  after  looking  at  me  very  earn- 
estly, said  a  few  words,  on  her  side,  to  the  same 
effect — with  a  certain  hesitation  of  manner,  how- 
ever, which  the  circumstances  did  not  seem  to 
me  to  warrant.  I  am  unable  to  say  positively 
whether  Sir  Pcrcivnl  noticed  this  or  not.  My 
opinion  is  that  he  did  ;  seeing  that  he  pointed- 
ly resimied  the  subject,  although  he  might  now 
with  all  propriety  have  allowed  it  to  drop. 

"  If  my  plain  statement  of  facts  had  only 
been  addressed  to  Mr.  Gilmore,"  he  said,  "I 
should  consider  any  further  reference  to  this 
unhappy  matter  as  unnecessary.  I  may  fairly 
expect  Mr.  Gilmore,  as  a  gentleman,  to  believe 
me  on  my  word ;  and  when  he  has  done  me 
that  justice,  all  discussion  of  the  subject  be- 
tween us  has  come  to  an  end.    I3ut  my  })osition 


with  a  lady  is  not  the  same.  I  owe  to  her, 
what  I  would  concede  to  no  man  alive — a  proof 
of  the  truth  of  my  assertion.  You  can  not  ask 
for  that  proof,  Miss  Halcombe  ;  and  it  is,  there- 
fore, m}'  duty  to  j-oii,  and  still  more  to  Miss 
Fairlie,  to  offer  it.  Jlay  I  beg  that  yon  will 
Avrite  at  once  to  the  mother  of  this  unfortunate 
woman — to  Mrs.  Catherick — to  ask  for  her  testi- 
mony in  support  of  the  explanation  which  I  have 
just  offered  to  you  ?" 

I  saw  Miss  Halcombe  change  color,  and  look 
a  little  uneasy.  Sir  Percival's  suggestion,  po- 
litely as  it  was  expressed,  apjjeared  to  her,  as  it 
a])peared  to  me,  to  point,  very  delicately,  at  the 
hesitation  which  her  manner  had  betrayed  a 
moment  or  two  since. 

"I  hope.  Sir  Percival,  you  don't  do  me  the 
injustice  to  suppose  that  I  distrust  you,"  she 
said,  quickly. 

"  Certainly  not,  Miss  Halcombe.  I  make  my 
proposal  purely  as  an  act  of  attention  to  you. 
Will  you  excuse  my  obstinacy  if  I  still  venture 
to  press  it  ?" 

He  walked  to  the  writing-table  as  he  spoke; 
drew  a  chair  to  it;  and  o])cucd  the  jiapcr-case. 

"  Let  me  beg  you  to  write  the  note,"  he  said, 
"  as  a  favor  to  v\e.  It  need  not  occupy  you 
more  than  a  few  minutes.     You  have  only  to 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


57 


ask  Mrs.  Catherick  two  questions.  Eirst,  if  her 
daughter  was  phxced  in  the  Asylum  with  her 
knowledge  and  approval.  Secondly,  if  the 
share  I  took  in  the  matter  was  such  as  to  merit 
the  expression  of  her  gratitude  toward  myself? 
Mr.  Gilmore's  mind  is  at  ease  on  this  unpleasant 
subject ;  and  your  mind  is  at  ease — pray  set  my 
mind  at  ease  also,  by  writing  the  note." 

"  You  oblige  me  to  grant  your  request,  Sir 
Percival,  when  I  would  much  rather  refuse  it." 
With  those  words  Miss  Halcombe  rose  from  her 
place,  and  went  to  tlie  writing-table.  Sir  Per- 
cival thanked  her,  handed  her  a  pen,  and  then 
walked  away  toward  the  fire-place.  Miss  Fair- 
lie's  little  Italian  greyhound  was  lying  on  the 
rug.  He  held  out  his  hand,  and  called  to  the 
dog  good-hnmoredly. 

"Come,  Nina,"  he  said;  "we  remember  each 
other,  don't  we  ?" 

The  little  beast,  cowardly  and  cross-grained 
as  pet  dogs  usually  are,  looked  up  at  him  sharp- 
ly, shrank  away  from  his  outstretched  liand, 
whined,  shivered,  and  hid  itself  under  a  sofa. 
It  was  scarcely  possible  that  he  could  have 
been  put  out  by  such  a  trifle  as  a  dog's  recep- 
tion of  him — -but  I  observed,  nevertheless,  that 
lie  walked  away  toward  the  window  very  sud- 
denly. 

Miss  Halcombe  was  not  long  in  writing  the 
note.  When  it  was  done,  she  rose  from  the 
writing-table,  and  handed  the  open  sheet  of  pa- 
per to  Sir  Percival.  He  bowed ;  took  it  from 
her;  folded  it  up  immediately,  without  looking 
at  the  contents ;  sealed  it ;  wrote  the  address ; 
and  handed  it  back  to  her  in  silence.  I  never 
saw  any  thing  more  gracefully  or  more  becom- 
ingly done  in  my  life. 

"You  insist  on  my  posting  this  letter,  Sir 
Percival  ?"  said  Miss  Halcombe. 

"  I  beg  you  will  post  it,"  he  answered.  "And 
now  that  it  is  written  and  sealed  up,  allow  me 
to  ask  one  or  two  last  questions  about  the  un- 
happy woman  to  whom  it  refers.  I  have  read 
the  communication  which  Mr.  Gilmore  kindly 
addressed  to  my  solicitor,  describing  the  circum- 
stances under  which  the  writer  of  the  anony- 
mous letter  was  identified.  But  there  are  cer- 
tain points  to  which  that  statement  does  not 
refer.     Did  Anne  Catherick  see  Miss  Fairlie  ?" 

"Certainly  not,"  replied  Miss  Halcombe. 

"Did  she  see  you?" 

"  No." 

"  She  saw  nobody  from  the  house,  then,  ex- 
cept a  certain  Mr.  Hartright,  who  accidentally 
met  with  her  in  the  church-yard  here?" 

"  Nobody  else." 

"  Mr.  Hartright  was  employed  at  Limmeridge 
as  a  drawing-master,  I  believe  ?  Is  he  a  mem- 
ber of  one  of  the  Water-Color  Societies  ?" 

"  I  believe  he  is,"  answered  Miss  Halcombe. 

He  paused  for  a  moment,  as  if  he  was  think- 
ing over  the  last  answer,  and  then  added  : 

"Did  you  find  out  where  Anne  Catherick 
was  living  when  she  was  in  this  neighborhood  ?" 

"  Yes.  At  a  farm  on  the  moor,  called  Todd's 
Corner." 

"It  is  a  duty  we  all  owe  to  the  poor  creature 
herself  to  trace  her,"  continued  Sir  Percival. 
"She  may  have  said  something  at  Todd's  Cor- 
ner which  may  help  us  to  find'  her.  I  will  go 
there,  and  make  inquiries  on  the  chance.  In 
the  mean  time,  as  I  can  not  prevail  on  myself 


to  discuss  this  painful  subject  with  Miss  Fairlie, 
may  I  beg,  Miss  Halcombe,  that  you  will  kindly 
undertake  to  give  her  the  necessary  explanation, 
deferring  it,  of  course,  until  you  have  received 
the  reply  to  that  note." 

Miss  Halcombe  jjromiscd  to  comply  with  his 
request.  He  thanked  her — nodded  pleasantly 
— and  left  us,  to  go  and  establish  himself  in  his 
own  room.  As  he  opened  the  door,  the  cross- 
grained  greyhound  poked  out  her  shai'p  muzzle 
from  under  the  sofa,  and  barked  and  snapped  at 
him. 

"A  good  morning's  work,  Miss  Halcombe,"' 
I  said,  as  soon  as  we  were  alone.  "Here  is  an 
anxious  day  well  ended  already." 

"  Yes,"  she  answered ;  "  no  doubt.  I  am  very 
glad  your  mind  is  satisfied." 

"^/i/  mind!  Surely,  with  that  note  in  your 
hand,  your  mind  is  at  ease  too?" 

"  Oh  yes — how  can  it  be  otherwise  ?  I  know 
the  thing  could  not  be,"  she  went  on,  speaking 
more  to  herself  than  to  me  ;  "  but  I  ahnost  wish 
Walter  Hartright  had  staid  here  long  enough  to 
be  present  at  the  explanation,  and  to  hear  the 
proposal  to  me  to  write  this  note." 

I  was  a  little  surprised  —  perhaps  a  little 
piqued,  also,  by  these  last  words. 

"Events,  it  is  true,  connected  Mr.  Hartright 
very  remarkably  with  the  affair  of  the  letter, "  I 
said;  "and  I  readily  admit  that  he  conducted 
himself,  all  things  considered,  with  great  deli- 
cacy and  discretion.  But  I  am  quite  at  a  loss 
to  understand  what  useful  influence  his  pres- 
ence could  have  exercised  in  relation  to  the  ef- 
fect of  Sir  Percival's  statement  on  your  mind  or 
mine." 

"It  was  only  a  fancy,"  she  said,  absently. 
"There  is  no  need  to  discuss  it,  Mr.  Gilmore. 
Your  experience  ought  to  be,  and  is,  the  best 
guide  I  can  desire." 

I  did  not  altogether  like  her  thrusting  the 
whole  responsibility  in  this  marked  manner  on 
my  shoulders.  If  Mr.  Fairlie  had  done  it,  I 
should  not  have  been  surprised.  But  resolute, 
clear-minded  Miss  Halcombe  was  the  very  last 
person  in  the  world  whom  I  should  have  expect- 
ed to  find  shrinking  from  the  expression  of  an 
opinion  of  her  own. 

"If  any  doubts  still  trouble  you,"  I  said, 
"why  not  mention  them  to  me  at  once?  Tell 
me  plainlv,  have  you  any  reason  to  distrust  Sir 
Percival  Glyde?" 

"None  whatever." 

"Do  you  see  any  thing  improbable  or  con- 
tradictory in  his  explanation  ?" 

"  How  can  I  say  I  do,  after  the  proof  he  has 
offered  me  of  the  truth  of  it?  Can  there  be 
better  testimony  in  his  favor,  Mr.  Gilmore,  than 
the  testimony  of  the  woman's  mother?" 

"None  better.  If  the  answer  to  your  note 
of  inquiry  proves  to  be  satisfactory,  I,  for  one, 
can  not  see  what  more  any  friend  of  Sir  Per- 
cival's can  possibly  expect  frorfi  him." 

"Then  we  will  post  the  note,"  she  said,  ris- 
ing to  leave  the  room,  "and  dismiss  all  further 
reference  to  the  subject  until  the  answer  ar- 
rives. Don't  attach  any  weight  to  my  hesita- 
tion. I  can  give  no  better  reason  for  it  thati 
that  I  have  been  overanxious  about  Laura  late- 
ly :  and  anxiety,  Mr.  Gilmore,  unsettles  the 
strongest  of  us." 

She  left  me  abruptly,  her  naturally  firm  voice 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


faltering  as  she  spoke  those  hist  -u-ords.  A  sens- 
itive, vehement,  passionate  nature — a  woman  of 
ten  thousand  in  these  trivial,  superficial  times. 
I  had  known  her  from  her  earliest  years  ;  I  had 
seen  her  tested,  as  she  grew  up,  in  more  than 
one  trying  family  crisis,  and  my  long  ex])eri- 
ence  made  me  attach  an  importance  to  her  hes- 
itation under  the  circumstances  here  detailed 
which  I  should  certainly  not  have  felt  in  the 
case  of  another  woman.  I  could  see  no  cause 
for  any  uneasiness  or  any  doubt ;  but  she  had 
made  me  a  little  uneasy  and  a  little  doubtful 
nevertheless.  In  my  youth  I  should  have  chafed 
and  fretted  under  the  irritation  of  my  own  un- 
reasonable state  of  mind.  In  my  age  I  knew 
better,  and  went  out  philosophically  to  walk  it 
off. 

II. 

We  all  met  again  at  dinner-time. 

Sir  Percival  was  in  such  boisterous  high  spir- 
its that  I  hardly  recognized  him  as  the  same 
man  whose  quiet  tact,  refinement,  and  good 
sense  had  impressed  me  so  strongly  at  the  in- 
terview of  the  morning.  The  only  trace  of  his 
former  self  that  I  could  detect  reappeared,  ev- 
ery now  and  then,  in  his  manner  toward  Miss 
Fairlie.  A  look  or  a  word  from  her  suspended 
his  loudest  laugh,  checked  his  gayest  flow  of 
talk,  and  rendered  him  all  attention  to  her,  and 
to  no  one  else  at  table,  in  an  instant.  Although 
he  never  openly  tried  to  draw  her  into  the  con- 
versation, he  never  lost  the  slightest  chance  she 
gave  him  of  letting  her  drift  into  it  by  acci- 
dent, and  of  saying  the  words  to  her,  under 
those  favorable  circumstances,  which  a  man 
with  less  tact  and  delicacy  would  have  point- 
edly addressed  to  her  the  moment  they  occurred 
to  him.  Rather  to  my  surprise.  Miss  Fairlie 
appeared  to  be  sensible  of  his  attentions  with- 
out being  moved  by  them.  She  was  a  little 
confused  from  time  to  time,  when  he  looked  at 
her  or  spoke  to  her;  but  she  never  warmed  to- 
ward him.  Rank,  fortune,  good-breeding,  good 
looks,  the  respect  of  a  gentleman,  and  the  de- 
votion of  a  lover,  were  all  humbly  placed  at  her 
feet,  and,  so  far  as  appearances  went,  were  all 
offered  in  vain. 

On  the  next  day,  the  Tuesday,  Sir  Percival 
went  in  the  morning  (taking  one  of  the  serv- 
ants with  him  as  a  guide)  to  Todd's  Corner. 
His  inquiries,  as  I  afterward  heard,  led  to  no 
results.  On  his  return  he  had  an  interview 
with  Mr.  Fairlie,  and  in  the  afternoon  he  and 
Miss  Halcombe  rode  out  together.  Nothing 
else  happened  worthy  of  record.  The  evening 
passed  as  usual.  There  was  no  change  in  Sir 
Percival,  and  no  change  in  Miss  Fairlie. 
.  The  Wednesday's  post  brought  with  it  an 
event — the  reply  from  Mrs.  Catherick.  I  took 
a  copy  of  the  document,  which  I  have  preserved, 
and  which  I  may  as  well  present  in  this  place. 
It  ran  as  follows: 

"  Madam, — I  beg  to  acknowledge  the  receipt 
of  your  letter,  inquiring  whether  my  daughter, 
Anne,  was  placed  under  medical  superintend- 
ence with  my  knowledge  and  approval,  and 
whether  the  share  taken  in  the  matter  by  Sir 
Percival  Glyde  was  such  as  to  merit  the  expres- 
sion of  my  gratitude  toward  that  gentleman. 
Be  pleased  to  accept  my  answer  in  the  afhrma- 


tive  to  both  those  questions,  and  believe  me  to 
remain,  your  obedient  servant, 

"Jane  Anne  Catheeick." 

Short,  sharp,  and  to  the  point :  in  form,  rath- 
er a  business-like  letter  for  a  woman  to  write  ; 
in  substance,  as  plain  a  confirmation  as  could 
be  desired  of  Sis  Percival  Glyde's  statement. 
This  was  my  opinion,  and,  with  certain  minor 
reservations,  Miss  Halcombe's  opinion  also.  Sir 
Percival,  when  the  letter  was  shown  to  him,  did 
not  ap])car  to  be  struck  by  the  sharp,  short  tone 
of  it.  He  told  us  that  Mrs.  Catherick  was  a 
woman  of  few  words,  a  clear-headed,  straight- 
forward, unimaginative  person,  who  wrote  brief- 
ly and  jilainly,  just  as  she  spoke. 

The  next  duty  to  be  accomplished,  now  that 
the  answer  had  been  received,  was  to  acquaint 
Miss  Fairlie  with  Sir  Percival's  exjilanation. 
Miss  Halcombe  had  undertaken  to  do  this,  and 
had  left  the  room  to  go  to  her  sister,  when  she 
suddenly  returned  again,  and  sat  down  by  the 
easy-chair  in  which  I  was  reading  the  news- 
paper. Sir  Percival  had  gone  out  a  minute  be- 
fore to  look  at  the  stables,  and  no  one  was  in 
the  room  but  ourselves. 

"I  suppose  we  have  really  and  truly  done  all 
we  can  ?"  she  said,  turning  and  twisting  Mrs. 
Catherlck's  letter  in  her  hand. 

"  If  we  are  friends  of  Sir  Percival's,  who 
know  him  and  trust  him,  we  have  done  all,  and 
more  than  all,  that  is  necessary,"  I  answered,  a 
little  annoyed  by  this  return  of  her  hesitation. 
"But  if  we  are  enemies  who  suspect  him — " 

"That  alternative  is  not  even  to  be  thought 
of,"  she  inter])Osed.  "We  are  Sir  Percival's 
friends ;  and,  if  generosity  and  forbearance  can 
add  to  our  regard  for  him,  we  ought  to  be  Sir 
Percival's  admirers  as  well.  You  know  that  he 
saw  Mr.  Fairlie  yesterday,  and  that  he  after- 
ward went  out  with  me?" 

"Yes.     I  saw  you  riding  away  together." 

"We  began  the  ride  by  talking  about  Anne 
Catherick,  and  about  the  singular  manner  in 
which  Mr.  Ilartright  met  with  her.  But  we 
soon  dropped  that  subject;  and  Sir  Percival 
spoke  next,  in  the  most  unselfish  terms,  of  his 
engagement  with  Laura.  He  said  he  had  ob- 
served that  she  was  out  of  spirits,  and  he  was 
willing,  if  not  informed  to  the  contrary,  to  attrib- 
ute to  that  cause  the  alteration  in  her  manner 
toward  him  during  his  present  visit.  If,  how- 
ever, there  was  any  other  more  serious  reason 
for  the  change,  he  would  entreat  that  no  con- 
straint might  be  ])laced  on  her  inclinations  either 
by  Mr.  Fairlie  or  by  me.  All  he  asked,  in  that 
case,  was  that  she  would  recall  to  mind,  for  the 
last  time,  Mhat  the  circumstances  were  under 
which  the  engagement  between  them  was  made, 
and  what  his  conduct  had  been  from  the  begin- 
ning of  the  courtsliip  to  the  present  time.  If, 
after  due  reflection  on  those  two  subjects,  she 
seriously  desired  that  he  should  withdraw  his 
pretensions  to  the  honor  of  becoming  her  hus- 
band— and  if  she  would  tell  him  so  plainly,  with 
her  own  lips  —  he  would  sacrifice  himself  by 
leaving  her  perfectly  free  to  withdraw  from  the 
engagement." 

"No  man  could  say  more  than  that,  Miss 
Halcombe.  As  to  my  experience,  few  men  in 
his  situation  would  have  said  as  much." 

She  paused  after  I  had  spoken  those  words, 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


59 


and  looked  nt  me  with  a  singular  expression  of  | 
perplexity  and  distress.  | 

"I  accuse  nobody,  and  I  suspect  nothing," 
she  broke  out,  abruptly.  "But  I  can  not  and 
will  not  accept  the  responsibility  of  persuading 
Laura  to  this  marriage." 

"  That  is  exactly  the  course  which  Sir  Perci- 
val  Glyde  has  himself  requested  you  to  take,"  I 
replied,  in  astonishment.  "  He  has  begged  you 
not  to  force  her  inclinations." 

"And  he  indirectly  obliges  me  to  force  them, 
if  I  give  her  his  message." 

"How  can  that  possibly  be  ?" 

"  Consult  your  own  knowledge  of  Laura,  Mr. 
Gilmore.  If  I  tell  her  to  reflect  on  the  circum- 
stances of  her  engagement,  I  at  once  a])peal  to 
two  of  the  strongest  feelings  in  her  nature — to 
her  love  for  her  father's  memory,  and  to  her 
strict  regard  for  truth.  You  know  that  she 
never  broke  a  promise  in  her  life ;  you  know 
that  she  entered  on  this  engagement  at  the  be- 
ginning of  her  father's  fatal  illness,  and  tliat  he 
spoke  hopefully  and  happily  of  her  marriage  to 
Sir  Percival  Glyde  on  his  death-bed." 

I  own  that  I  was  a  little  shocked  at  this  view 
of  the  case. 

"Surely,"  I  said,  "you  don't  mean  to  infer 
that  when  Sir  Percival  spoke  to  you  yesterday 
he  speculated  on  such  a  result  as  you  have  just 
mentioned?" 

Her  frank,  fearless  face  answered  for  her  be- 
fore she  spoke, 

"Do  you  think  I  would  remain  an  instant  in 
the  company  of  any  man  whom  I  suspected  of 
such  baseness  as  that  ?"  she  asked,  angrily. 

I  liked  to  feel  her  hearty  indignation  flash  out 
on  me  in  that  way.  We  see  so  much  malice 
and  so  little  indignation  in  my  profession. 

"In  that  case,"  I  said,  "excuse  me  if  I  tell 
you,  in  our  legal  phrase,  that  you  are  traveling 
out  of  the  record.  Whatever  the  consequences 
may  be,  Sir  Percival  has  a  right  to  exjiect  that 
your  sister  should  carefully  consider  her  engage- 
ment from  every  reasonable  point  of  view  before 
she  claims  her  release  from  it.  If  that  unlucky 
letter  has  prejudiced  her  against  him,  go  at  once, 
and  tell  her  that  he  has  cleared  liimself  in  your 
eyes  and  in  mine?.  •  What  objection  can  she  urge 
against  him  after  that?  What  excuse  can  she 
possibly  have  for  changing  her  mind  about  a 
man  whom  she  virtually  accepted  for  her  hus- 
band more  than  two  years  ago  ?" 

"  In  the  eyes  of  law  and  reason,  Mr.  Gilmore, 
no  excuse,  I  dare  say.  If  she  still  hesitates,  and 
if  I  still  hesitate,  you  must  attribute  our  strange 
conduct,  if  you  like,  to  caprice  in  both  cases,  and 
we  must  bear  the  imputation  as  well  as  we  can." 

With  those  words  she  suddenly  rose  and  left 
rae.  When  a  sensible  woman  has  a  serious 
question  put  to  her,  and  evades  it  by  a  flippant 
answer,  it  is  a  sure  sign,  in  ninety-nine  cases 
out  of  a  hundred,  that  she  has  something  to 
conceal.  I  returned  to  the  perusal  of  the  news- 
paper, strongly  suspecting  that  Miss  Halcombe 
and  Miss  Fairlie  had  a  secret  between  them 
which  they  were  keeping  from  Sir  Percival  and 
keeping  from  me.  I  thought  this  hard  on  both 
of  us — especially  on  Sir  Percival. 

My  doubts — or,  to  speak  more  correctly,  my 
convictions — were  confirmed  by  Miss  Halcombe's 
language  and  manner  when  I  saw  her  again  lat-  '. 
er  in  the  day.     She  was  suspiciously  brief  and  ' 


reserved  in  telling  me  the  result  of  her  interview 
with  her  sister.  Miss  Fairlie,  it  appeared,  had 
listened  quietly  while  the  affair  of  the  letter  was 
placed  before  her  in  the  right  point  of  view ;  but 
when  Miss  Halcombe  next  proceeded  to  say 
that  the  object  of  Sir  Percival's  visit  at  Limmer- 
idge  was  to  prevail  on  her  to  let  a  day  be  fixed 
for  the  marriage,  she  checked  all  further  refer- 
ence to  the  subject  by  begging  for  time.  If  Sir 
Percival  would  consent  to  spare  her  for  the  pres- 
ent she  would  undertake  to  give  him  his  final 
answer  before  the  end  of  the  year.  She  plead- 
ed for  this  delay  with  such  anxiety  and  agitation 
that  Miss  Halcombe  had  promised  to  use  her  in- 
fluence, if  necessary,  to  obtain  it ;  and  there,  at 
Miss  Fairlie's  earnest  entreaty,  all  further  dis- 
cussion of  the  marriage  question  had  ended. 

The  jiurely  temporary  arrangement  thus  pro- 
posed might  have  been  convenient  enough  to 
the  young  lady ;  but  it  jjroved  somewhat  embar- 
rassing to  the  writer  of  these  lines.  That  morn- 
ing's post  had  brought  a  letter  from  my  partner 
which  obliged  me  to  return  to  town  the  next 
day  by  the  afternoon  train.  It  was  extremely 
probable  that  I  should  find  no  second  opportuni- 
ty of  presenting  myself  at  Limmeridge  House 
during  the  remainder  of  the  year.  In  that  case, 
supposing  Miss  Fairlie  ultimately  decided  on 
holding  her  engagement,  my  necessary  personal 
communication  with  her,  before  I  drew  her  set- 
tlement, would  become  something  like  a  do\vn- 
right  impossibility;  and  we  should  be  obliged 
to  commit  to  writing  questions  which  ought  al- 
ways to  be  discussed  on  both  sides  by  word  of 
mouth.  I  said  nothing  about  this  difficulty  un- 
til Sir  Percival  had  been  consulted  on  the  sub- 
ject of  the  desired  delay.  He  was  too  gallant 
a  gentleman  not  to  grant  the  request  immedi- 
ately. When  Miss  Halcombe  informed  me  of 
this,  I  told  her  that  I  must  absolutely  speak  to 
her  sister  before  I  left  Limmeridge  ;  and  it  was, 
therefore,  arranged  that  I  should  see  Miss  Fair- 
lie  in  her  own  sitting-room  the  next  morning. 
She  did  not  come  down  to  dinner,  or  join  us  iu 
the  evening.  Indisposition  was  the  excuse ; 
and  I  thought  Sir  Percival  looked,  as  well  he 
might,  a  little  annoyed  when  he  heard  of  it. 

The  next  morning,  as  soon  as  breakfast  was 
over,  I  went  up  to  Miss  Fairlie's  sitting-room. 
The  poor  girl  looked  so  pale  and  sad,  and  came 
forward  to  welcome  me  so  readily  and  prettij}', 
that  the  resolution  to  lecture  her  on  her  caprice 
and  indecision,  which  I  had  been  forming  all 
the  way  up  stairs,  failed  me  on  the  spot.  I  led 
her  back  to  the  chair  from  which  she  had  risen, 
and  placed  myself  opposite  to  her.  Her  cross- 
grained  pet  greyhound  was  in  the  room,  and  I 
fully  expected  a  barking  and  snapping  recep- 
tion. Strange  to  say,  the  whimsical  little  brute 
falsified  my  expectations  by  jumping  into  my 
lap,  and  poking  its  sharp  muzzle  familiarly  into 
my  hand  the  moment  I  sat  down. 

"  You  used  often  to  sit  on  my  knee  when  you 
were  a  child,  my  dear,"  I  said,  "  and  now  your 
little  dog  seems  determined  to  succeed  you  in 
the  vacant  throne.  Is  that  pretty  drawing  your 
doing?" 

I  pointed  to  a  little  album  which  lay  on  the 
table  by  her  side,  and  which  she  had  evidently 
been  looking  over  when  I  came  in.  Tlie  page 
that  lay  open  had  a  small  water-color  landscape 
very  neatly  mounted  on  it.    This  was  the  draw- 


60 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


ing  which  had  suggested  my  question :  an  idle 
question  enough ;  but  how  could  I  begin  to  talk 
of  business  to  her  the  moment  I  opened  my  lips  ? 

"No,"  she  said,  looking  away  from  the  draw- 
ing rather  confusedly ;  "  it  is  not  my  doing." 

Her  fingers  had  a  restless  habit,  which  I  re- 
membered in  her  as  a  child,  of  always  playing 
with  the  first  thing  that  came  to  hand,  whenev- 
er any  one  was  talking  to  her.  On  this  occa- 
sion they  wandered  to  the  album,  and  toyed  ab- 
sently about  the  margin  of  the  little  water-color 
drawing.  The  expression  of  melancholy  deep- 
ened on  her  face.  She  did  not  look  at  the  draw- 
ing, or  look  at  me.  Her  eyes  moved  uneasily 
from  object  to  object  in  the  room;  betraying 
plainly  that  she  suspected  what  my  purpose 
was  in  coming  to  speak  to  her.  Seeing  that,  I 
thought  it  best  to  get  to  the  purpose  with  as  lit- 
tle delay  as  possible. 

"  One  of  the  errands,  my  dear,  which  brings 
rae  here  is  to  bid  you  good-liy,"  I  began.  "I 
must  get  back  to  London  to-day  ;  and,  before  I 
leave,  I  want  to  have  a  word  Avith  you  ou  the 
subject  of  your  own  affairs." 

"I  am  veiy  sorry  you  are  going,  Mr.  Gil- 
more,"  she  said,  looking  at  me  kindly.  "  It  is 
like  the  happy  old  times  to  have  you  here." 

"I  hope  I  may  be  able  to  come  back,  and  re- 
call those  pleasant  memories  once  more,"  I  con- 
tinued ;  "  but  as  there  is  some  uncertainty  about 
the  future,  I  must  take  my  opportunity  when  I 
can  get  it,  and  speak  to  you  now.  I  am  your 
old  lawyer  and  your  old  friend ;  and  I  may  re- 
mind yon,  I  am  sure,  witliout  oifensc,  of  the  pos- 
sibility of  your  marrying  Sir  Percival  Glyde." 

She  took  her  hand  ofi^"  the  little  all>um  as  sud- 
denly as  if  it  had  turned  hot  and  burned  her. 
Her  fingers  twined  together  nervously  in  her 
lap ;  her  eyes  looked  down  again  at  the  floor ; 
and  an  expression  of  constraint  settled  on  her 
face  which  looked  almost  like  an  expression  of 
pain. 

"  Is  it  absolutelj''  necessary  to  speak  of  my 
jnarriage  engagement  ?"  she  asked,  in  low  tones. 

"It  is  necessary  to  refer  to  it,"  I  answered ; 
"but  not  to  dwell  on  it.  Let  us  merely  say 
that  j'ou  may  marry,  or  that  you  ma}^  not  mar- 
ry. In  the  first  case,  I  must  be  prepared,  be- 
forehand, to  draw  your  settlement ;  and  I  ought 
not  to  do  that  without,  as  a  matter  of  polite- 
ness, first  consulting  you.  This  may  be  my  only 
chance  of  hearing  what  your  wishes  are.  Let 
us,  therefore,  suppose  the  case  of  your  marry- 
ing, and  let  me  inform  you,  in  as  few  words  as 
possible,  what  your  position  is  now,  and  wliat 
you  may  make  it,  if  you  please,  in  the  future." 

I  explained  to  her  the  object  of  a  marriage 
settlement;  and  then  told  her  exactly  what  her 
prospects  were — in  the  first  place,  on  her  com- 
ing of  age,  and,  in  the  second  place,  on  the  de- 
cease of  her  uncle — marking  the  distinction  be- 
tween tlie  property  in  which  she  had  a  life-in- 
terest only,  and  the  property  which  was  left  at 
her  own  control.  She  listened  attentively,  with 
the  constrained  expression  still  on  her  face,  and 
her  hands  still  nervously  clasped  together  in 
her  lap. 

"And  now,"  I  said,  in  conclusion,  "tell  me 
if  you  can  think  of  any  condition  which,  in  the 
case  we  have  su])posed,  you  would  wish  me  to 
make  for  you — subject,  of  course,  to  your  guard- 
ian's approval,  as  you  are  not  yet  of  age." 


She  moved  uneasily  in  her  chair — then  look- 
ed in  my  face,  on  a  sudden,  very  earnestly. 

"  If  it  does  happen,"  she  began,  faintly  •  "if 
I  am — " 

"If  you  are  married,"  I  added,  helping  her 
out. 

"Don't  let  him  part  me  from  Marian,"  she 
cried,  with  a  sudden  outbreak  of  energy.  "  Oh, 
Mr.  Gilmore,  pray  make  it  law  that  Marian  is 
to  live  witli  me!" 

Under  other  circumstances  I  might,  perhaps, 
have  been  amused  at  this  essentially  feminine 
interpretation  of  my  question,  and  of  the  long 
explanation  which  had  preceded  it.  But  her 
looks  and  tones  when  she  spoke  were  of  a  kind 
to  make  me  more  than  serious — they  distressed 
me.  Her  words,  few  as  they  were,  betrayed  a 
desperate  clinging  to  the  past  which  boded  ill 
for  the  future. 

"Your  having  Marian  Halcombe  to  live  with 
you  can  easily  be  settled  by  private  arrange- 
ment," I  said.  "  You  hardly  understood  my 
question,  I  think.  It  referred  to  your  own  prop- 
erty— to  the  disposal  of  your  money.  Suppos- 
ing you  were  to  make  a  will,  when  you  come  of 
age,  who  would  you  like  the  money  to  go  to  ?" 

"Marian  has  been  mother  and  sister  both  to 
me,"  said  the  good,  aftectionate  girl,  her  pretty 
blue  eyes  glistening  Avhile  she  spoke.  "May  I 
leave  it  to  Marian,  Mr.  Gilmore?" 

"Certainly,  my  love,"  I  answered.  "But 
remember  what  a  large  sum  it  is.  Would  you 
like  it  all  to  go  to  Miss  Halcombe?" 

She  hesitated  ;  her  color  came  and  went ;  and 
her  hand  stole  back  again  to  the  little  album. 

"Not  all  of  it,"  she  said.  "There  is  some 
one  else  besides  Marian — " 

She  stopped ;  her  color  heightened ;  and  the 
fingers  of  the  hand  that  rested  upon  the  album 
beat  gently  on  the  margin  of  the  drawing,  as  if 
her  memory  had  set  them  going  mechanically 
with  the  remembrance  of  a  favorite  tune. 

"You  mean  some  other  member  of  the  fam- 
ily besides  Miss  Halcombe?"  I  suggested,  see- 
ing her  at  a  loss  to  proceed. 

The  heightening  color  spread  to  her  forehead 
and  her  neck,  and  the  nervous  fintrers  suddenlv 
clasped  themselves  fast  round  the  edge  of  the 
book. 

"There  is  some  one  else,"  she  said,  not  no- 
ticing my  last  words,  though  she  had  evidently 
heard  them  ;  "  there  is  some  one  else  who  might 
like  a  little  keejisake  if — if  I  might  leave  it. 
There  would  Ijc  no  harm  if  I  should  die  first — " 

She  paused  again.  The  color  that  had  spread 
over  her  cheeks  suddenly  as  suddenly  left  them. 
The  hand  on  the  album  resigned  its  hold,  trem- 
bled a  little,  and  moved  the  book  away  from 
her.  She  looked  at  me  for  an  instant — then 
turned  her  head  aside  in  the  chair.  Her  hand- 
kerchief fell  to  the  floor  as  she  changed  her  po- 
sition, and  she  hurriedly  hid  her  face  from  me 
in  her  hands. 

Sad!  To  remember  her,  as  I  did,  the  liveli- 
est, happiest  child  that  ever  laughed  the  day 
through ;  and  to  see  her  now,  in  the  flower  of 
her  age  and  lier  beauty,  so  broken  and  so  brought 
down  as  this ! 

In  the  distress  that  she  caused  me,  I  forgot 
the  years  tliat  had  pa.ssed,  and  the  change  they 
had  made  in  our  position  toward  one  another. 
I  moved  my  chair  close  to  her,  and  j)ickcd  up 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


61 


her  haudkcrcliief  from  the  carpet,  and  drew  her 
hands  from  her  face  gently.  "  Don't  cry,  my 
love,"  I  said,  and  dried  the  tears  that  were  gath- 
ering in  her  eyes  with  my  own  hand,  as  if  she 
had  been  the  little  Laura  Fairlie  of  ten  long 
years  ago. 

It  was  the  best  way  I  could  have  taken  to 
compose  her.  She  laid  her  head  on  my  shoul- 
der, and  smiled  faintly  through  her  tears. 

"I  am  very  sorry  for  forgetting  myself,"  she 
said,  artlessly.  "  I  have  not  been  well — I  have 
felt  sadly  weak  and  nervous  lately ;  and  I  often 
cry  without  reason  when  I  am  alone.  I  am  bet- 
ter now ;  I  can  answer  you  as  I  ought,  Mr.  Gil- 
more  ;  I  can,  indeed." 

"No,  no,  my  dear,"  I  replied;'  "we  will  con- 
sider the  subject  as  done  with,  for  the  present. 
You  have  said  enough  to  sanction  my  taking  the 
best  possible  care  of  your  interests  ;  and  we  can 
settle  details  at  another  opportunity.  Let  us 
have  done  with  business  now,  and  talk  of  some- 
thing else." 

I  led  her  at  once  into  speaking  on  other  topics. 
In  ten  minutes'  time  she  was  in  better  spirits, 
and  I  rose  to  take  my  leave. 

"Come  here  again," she  said,  earnestly.  "I 
will  try  to  be  worthier  of  your  kind  feeling  for 
me  and  for  my  interests  if  you  will  only  come 
again." 

Still  clinging  to  the  past — the  past  which  I 
represented  to  her,  in  my  way,  as  Miss  Halcombe 
did  in  hers  I  It  troubled  me  sorely  to  see  her 
looking  back  at  the  beginning  of  her  career, 
just  as  I  look  back  at  the  end  of  mine. 

"  If  I  do  come  again,  I  hope  I  shall  find  you 
better,"  I  said — "better  and  happier.  God 
bless  you,  my  dear." 

She  only  answered  by  putting  up  her  cheek 
to  me  to  be  kissed.  Even  lawyers  have  hearts ; 
and  mine  ached  a  little  as  I  took  leave  of  her. 

The  whole  interview  between  us  had  hardly 
lasted  more  than  half  an  hour  —  she  had  not 
breathed  a  word,  in  my  presence,  to  explain  the 
mystery  of  her  evident  distress  and  dismay  at 
the  prospect  of  her  marriage — and  yet  she  had 
contrived  to  win  me  over  to  her  side  of  the 
question,  I  neither  knew  how  nor  why.  I  had 
entered  the  I'oom  feeling  that  Sir  Percival  Glyde 
had  fair  reason  to  complain  of  the  manner  in 
which  she  was  treating  him.  I  left  it,  secretly 
hoping  that  matters  might  end  iu  her  taking 
him  at  his  word  and  claiming  her  release.  A 
man  of  my  age  and  experience  ought  to  have 
known  better  than  to  vacillate  in  this  imreason- 
able  manner.  I  can  make  no  excuse  for  my- 
self; I  can  only  tell  the  truth,  and  say — so  it  was. 

The  hour  for  my  departure  was  now  drawing 
near.  I  sent  to  Mr.  Fairlie  to  say  that  I  would 
wait  on  him  to  take  leave  if  he  liked,  but  that 
he  must  excuse  my  being  rather  in  a  hurry.  He 
sent  a  message  back,  written  in  pencil  on  a  slip 
of  paper:  "Kind  love  and  best  wishes,  dear 
Gilmore.  Hurry  of  any  kind  is  inexpressibly 
injurious  to  me.  Pray  take  care  of  yourself. 
Good-by." 

Just  before  I  left  I  saw  Miss  Halcombe,  for 
a  moment,  alone. 

"Have  yoit  said  all  you  wanted  to  Laura?" 
she  asked. 

"Yes,"  I  replied.  "She  is  very  weak  and 
nervous — I  am  glad  she  has  you  to  take  care  of 
her." 


Miss  Halcombe's  sharp  eyes  studied  ray  face 
attentivelv. 

"  You  are  altering  your  opinion  about  Laura," 
she  said.  "  You  are  readier  to  make  allowances 
for  her  than  you  were  yesterday." 

No  sensible  man  ever  engages,  unprepared, 
in  a  fencing-match  of  words  with  a  woman.  1 
only  answered : 

"Let  me  know  what  happens.  I  will  do  no- 
thing till  I  hear  from  you." 

She  still  looked  hard  in  my  face.  "I  wish  it 
was  all  over,  and  well  over,  Mr.  Gilmore — and 
so  do  you."     With  those  words  she  left  me. 

Sir  Percival  most  politely  insisted  on  seeing 
me  to  the  carriage  door. 

"  If  you  are  ever  in  my  neighborhood,"  he 
said,  "pray  don't  forget  that  I  am  sincerely 
anxious  to  improve  our  acquaintance.  The  tried 
and  trusted  old  friend  of  this  family  will  be  al- 
ways a  welcome  visitor  in  any  house  of  mine." 

A  really  irresistible  man — courteous,  consid- 
erate, delightfully  free  from  pride  —  a  gentle- 
man every  inch  of  him.  As  I  drove  away  to 
the  station  I  felt  as  if  I  could  cheerfully  do  any 
thing  to  promote  the  interests  of  Sir  Percival 
Glyde — any  thing  in  the  world,  except  drawing 
the  marriage  settlement  of  his  wife. 

III. 

A  WEEK  passed,  after  my  return  to  London, 
without  the  recei2:)t  of  any  communication  from 
Miss  Halcombe. 

On  the  eighth  day,  a  letter  in  her  hand- 
writing was  placed  among  the  other  letters  on 
my  desk. 

It  announced  that  Sir  Percival  Glyde  had 
been  definitely  accepted,  and  that  the  marriage 
was  to  take  place,  as  he  had  originally  desired, 
before  the  end  of  the  year.  In  all  probability 
the  ceremony  would  be  performed  during  the 
last  fortnight  in  December.  Miss  Fairlie's  twen- 
ty-first birthday  was  late  in  March.  She  would, 
therefore,  by  this  arrangement,  become  Sir  Per- 
cival's  wife  about  three  months  before  she  was 
of  age. 

I  ought  not  to  have  been  surprised,  I  ought 
not  to  have  been  sorry  ;  but  I  was  surprised  and 
sorry,  nevertheless.  Some  little  disajjpoint- 
ment,  caused  by  the  unsatisfactory  shortness  of 
Miss  Halcombe's  letter,  mingled  itself  with  these 
feelings,  and  contributed  its  share  toward  up- 
setting my  serenity  for  the  day.  In  six  lines 
my  correspondent  announced  the  proposed  mar- 
riage ;  in  three  more  she  told  me  that  Sir  Per- 
cival had  left  Cumberland  to  return  to  his  house 
in  Ham])shire  ;  and  in  two  concluding  sentences 
she  informed  me,  first,  that  Laura  was  sadly  in 
want  of  change  and  cheerful  society ;  secondly, 
that  she  had  resolved  to  try  the  effect  of  some 
such  change  forthwith,  by  taking  her  sister  away 
with  her  on  a  visit  to  certain  old  friends  in 
Yorkshire.  There  the  letter  ended,  without  a 
word  to  explain  what  the  circumstances  were 
which  had  decided  Miss  Fairlie  to  accept  Sir 
Percival  Glyde  in  one  short  week  from  the  time 
when  I  had  last  seen  her. 

At  a  later  period  the  cause  of  this  sudden 
determination  was  fully  explained  to  me.  It 
is  not  my  business  to  relate  it  imperfectly  on 
hearsay  evidence.  The  circumstances  came 
within  the  personal  experience  of  Miss  Hal- 
combe ;  and,  when  her  narrative  succeeds  mine, 


62 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


she  will  describe  them  in  every  particular,  ex- 
actly as  they  happened.  In  the  mean  time,  the 
plain  duty  for  me  to  perform — before  I,  in  my 
turn,  lay  down  my  pen  and  withdraw  from  the 
story — is  to  relate  the  one  remaining  event  con- 
nected with  Miss  Fairlie's  proposed  marriage  in 
which  I  was  concerned,  namely,  the  drawing 
of  the  settlement. 

It  is  impossible  to  refer  intelligibly  to  this 
document,  without  first  entering  into  certain 
particulars  in  relation  to  tlie  bride's  pecuniary 
affairs.  I  will  try  to  make  my  explanation 
briefly  and  plainly,  and  to  keep  it  free  from 
professional  obscurities  and  technicalities.  The 
matter  is  of  the  utmost  importance.  I  warn  all 
readers  of  these  lines  that  Miss  Fairlie's  inher- 
itance is  a  very  serious  part  of  Miss  Fairlie's 
story ;  and  that  Mr.  Gilmore's  experience,  in 
this  particular,  must  be  their  experience  also,  if 
they  wish  to  understand  the  narratives  which 
are  yet  to  come. 

Miss  Fairlie's  expectations,  then,  were  of  a 
two-fold  kind ;  comprising  her  possible  inherit- 
ance of  real  ]jroperty,  or  land,  when  her  uncle 
died,  and  her  absolute  inheritance  of  personal 
property,  or  money,  when  she  came  of  age.  ■ 

Let  us  take  the  land  first. 

In  the  time  of  Miss  Fairlie's  paternal  grand- 
father (whom  we  will  call  Mr.  Fairlie  the  elder) 
the  entailed  succession  to  the  Limmeridge  estate 
stood  thus : 

Mr.  Fairlie  the  elder  died%nd  left  three  sons 
—  Philip,  Frederick,  and  Arthur.  As  eldest 
son,  Philip  succeeded  to  the  estate.  If  he  died 
without  leaving  a  son,  the  property  went  to  the 
second  brother,  Frederick.  And  if  Frederick 
died  also  without  leaving  a  son,  the  property 
went  to  the  third  brother,  Artlnir. 

As  events  turned  out,  Mr.  Philip  Fairlie  died, 
leaving  an  only  daughter,  the  Laura  of  this 
story ;  and  the  estate,  in  consequence,  went,  in 
the  course  of  law,  to  the  second  brother,  Fred- 
erick, a  single  man.  The  third  brother,  Arthur, 
had  died  many  years  before  the  decease  of 
Philip,  leaving  a  son  and  a  daughter.  The  son, 
at  the  age  of  eighteen,  was  drowned  at  Oxford. 
His  death  left  Laura,  the  daughter  of  Mr.  Philip 
Fairlie,  presumptive  heiress  to  the  estate,  with 
every  chance  of  succeeding  to  it,  in  the  ordinary 
course  of  nature,  on  her  uncle  Frederick's  death, 
if  the  said  Frederick  died  without  leaving  male 
issue. 

Except  in  the  event,  then,  of  Mr.  Frederick 
Fairlie's  marrying  and  leaving  an  heir  (the  two 
very  last  things  in  the  world  that  he  was  likely 
to  do),  his  niece,  Laura,  would  have  the  prop- 
erty on  his  death  ;  possessing,  it  must  be  re- 
membered, nothing  more  tlian  a  life-interest  in 
it.  If  she  died  single,  or  died  childless,  the  es- 
tate would  revert  to  her  cousin  Magdalen,  the 
daughter  of  J\Ir.  Arthur  Fairlie.  If  she  married, 
with  a  proper  settlement — or,  in  other  words, 
with  the  settlement  I  meant  to  make  for  her — 
the  income  from  the  estate  (a  good  three  thou- 
sand a  year)  would,  during  her  lifetime,  be  at 
her  own  disposal.  If  she  died  before  her  hus- 
band, he  would  naturally  expect  to  be  left  in 
the  enjoyment  of  tlie  income  for  Ms  lifetime. 
If  she  had  a  son,  that  son  would  be  the  heir,  to 
the  exclusion  of  her  cousin  Magdalen.  Thus 
Sir  Percival's  prospects  in  marrying  Miss  Fair- 
lie  (so  far  as  his  wife's  expectations  from  real 


property  were  concerned)  promised  him  these 
two  advantages,  on  Mr.  Frederick  Fairlie's 
death :  First,  the  use  of  three  thousand  a  year 
(by  his  wife's  permission,  while  she  lived,  and, 
in  his  own  right,  on  her  death,  if  he  survived 
her) ;  and,  secondly,  the  inheritance  of  Lim- 
meridge for  his  son,  if  he  had  one. 

So  much  for  the  landed  property,  and  for  the 
disposal  of  the  income  from  it,  on  the  occasion 
of  Miss  Fairlie's  marriage.  Thus  far  no  diffi- 
culty or  difference  of  opinion  on  the  lady's  set- 
tlement was  at  all  likely  to  arise  between  Sir 
Percival's  lawyer  and  myself. 

The  personal  estate,  or,  in  other  words,  the 
money  to  which  Miss  Fairlie  would  become  en- 
titled on  reaching  the  age  of  twenty-one  years, 
is  the  next  point  to  consider. 

This  part  of  her  inheritance  was,  in  itself,  a 
comfortable  little  fortune.  It  was  derived  under 
her  father's  will,  and  it  amounted  to  the  sum  of 
twenty  thousand  ])ounds.  Besides  this,  she  had 
a  life-interest  in  ten  thousand  pounds  more  ; 
which  latter  amount  was  to  go,  on  her  decease, 
to  her  aunt  Eleanor,  her  father's  only  sister.  It 
will  greatly  assist  in  setting  the  family  afftiirs 
before  the  reader  in  the  clearest  possible  light, 
if  I  stop  here  for  a  moment  to  explain  why  the 
aunt  had  been  kejit  waiting  for  her  legacy  until 
the  death  of  the  niece. 

Mr.  Philip  Fairlie  had  lived  on  excellent  terms 
with  his  sister  Eleanor  as  long  as  she  remained 
a  single  woman.  But  when  her  marriage  took 
place,  somewhat  late  in  life,  and  when  that  mar- 
riage united  her  to  an  Italian  gentleman,  named 
Fosco — or,  rather,  to  an  Italian  nobleman,  see- 
ing that  he  rejoiced  in  the  title  of  Count — Mr. 
Fairlie  disapproved  of  her  conduct  so  strongly 
that  he  ceased  to  hold  any  communication  with 
her,  and  even  went  the  length  of  striking  her 
name  out  of  his  will.  The  other  members  of 
the  family  all  thought  this  serious  manifestation 
of  resentment  at  his  sister's  marriage  more  or 
less  unreasonable.  Count  Fosco,  though  not  a 
rich  man,  was  not  a  penniless  adventurer  either. 
He  had  a  small  but  sufficient  income  of  his 
own  ;  he  had  lived  many  years  in  England ;  and 
he  held  an  excellent  position  in  society.  These 
recommendations,  however,  availed  nothing  with 
Mr.  Fairlie.  In  many  of  his  opinions  he  was 
an  Englishman  of  the  old  school;  and  he  hated 
a  foreigner,  simply  and  solely  because  he  was  a 
foreigner.  The  utmost  that  he  could  be  pre- 
vailed on  to  do,  in  after  years,  mainly  at  I\Iiss 
Fairlie's  intercession,  was  to  restore  his  sister's 
name  to  its  former  jjlace  in  his  will,  but  to  keep 
her  waiting  for  her  legacy  by  giving  the  income 
of  the  money  to  his  daughter  for  life,  and  the 
money  itself,  if  her  aunt  died  before  her,  to  her 
cousin  jMagdalen.  Considering  the  relative  ages 
of  the  two  ladies,  the  aunt's  chance,  in  the  or- 
dinary course  of  nature,  of  receiving  the  ten 
thousand  pounds,  was  thus  rendered  doubtful  in 
the  extreme ;  and  IMadame  Fosco  resented  her 
brother's  treatment  of  her,  as  unjustly  as  usual 
in  such  cases,  by  refusing  to  see  her  niece,  and 
declining  to  believe  that  Miss  Fairlie's  interces- 
sions had  ever  been  exerted  to  restore  her  name 
to  Mr.  Fairlie's  will. 

Such  was  the  history  of  the  ten  thousand 
pounds.  Here  again  no  difficulty  could  arise 
with  Sir  Percival's  legal  adviser.  Tlie  income 
would  be  at  the  wife's  disposal,  and  the  princi- 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


63 


pal  would  go  to  her  aunt  or  her  cousin  on  her 
death. 

All  preliminary  explanations  being  now  clear- 
ed out  of  tiie  way,  I  come  at  last  to  the  real  knot 
of  the  case — to  the  twenty  thousand  jiounds. 

This  sum  was  absolutely  Miss  Fairlie's  own, 
on  her  completing  her  twenty-first  year;  and 
the  whole  future  disposition  of  it  depended,  in 
the  first  instance,  on  the  conditions  I  could  ob- 
tain for  her  in  her  maiTiage  settlement.  The 
other  clauses  contained  in  that  document  were 
of  a  formal  kind,  and  need  not  be  recited  liere. 
But  the  clause  relating  to  the  money  is  too  im- 
portant to  be  passed  over.  A  few  lines  will  be 
sufficient  to  give  the  necessary  abstract  of  it. 

My  stipulation  in  regard  to  the  twenty  thou- 
sand pounds  was  sim])ly  this :  The  whole  amount 
was  to  be  settled  so  as  to  give  the  income  to  tlie 
lady  for  her  life ;  aftei'ward  to  Sir  Percival  for 
his  life;  and  the  principal  to  the  children  of  the 
marriage.  In  default  of  issue,  tiie  principal  was 
to  be  disposed  of  as  the  lady  might  by  her  will 
direct,  for  which  purpose  I  reserved  to  her  the 
right  of  making  a  will.  The  effect  of  these 
conditions  may  be  thus  summed  up :  If  Lady 
Glyde  died  without  leaving  children,  her  half- 
sister,  Miss  Ilalcombe,  and  any  otlier  relatives  or 
friends  whom  she  miglit  be  anxious  to  benefit, 
would,  on  her  husband's  death,  divide  among 
them  such  shares  of  her  money  as  she  desired 
them  to  have.  If,  on  the  other  hand,' she  died 
leaving  children,  then  their  interest,  naturally 
and  necessarily,  superseded  all  other  interests 
whatsoever.  This  was  the  clause ;  and  no  one 
who  reads  it  can  fail,  I  think,  to  agree  with  me 
that  it  meted  out  equal  justice  to  all  parties. 

We  shall  see  how  my  proposals  were  met  on 
the  husband's  side. 

At  the  time  when  Miss  Halcombe's  letter 
reached  me  I  was  even  more  busily  occupied 
than  usual.  But  I  contrived  to  make  leisure 
for  the  settlement.  I  had  drawn  it,  and  had 
sent  it  for  approval  to  Sir  Percival's  solicitor, 
in  less  than  a  week  from  the  time  when  Miss 
Halcome  had  informed  me  of  the  proposed  mar- 
riage. 

After  a  lapse  of  two  days  the  document  was 
returned  to  me,  with  the  notes  and  remarks  of 
the  baronet's  lawyer.  His  objections,  in  gen- 
eral, proved  to  be  of  the  most  trifling  and  tech- 
nical kind,  until  he  came  to  the  clause  relating 
to  the  twenty  thousand  pounds.  Against  this 
there  were  double  lines  drawn  in  red  ink,  and 
the  following  note  was  appended  to  them : 

"  Not  admissible.  The  principal  to  go  to  Sir 
Percival  Glyde,  in  the  event  of  his  surviving 
Lady  Glyde,  and  there  being  no  issue." 

That  is  to  say,  not  one  fiirthing  of  the  twen- 
ty thousand  pounds  was  to  go  to  filiss  Halcombe, 
or  to  any  other  relative  or  friend  of  Lady  Glyde's. 
The  whole  sum,  if  she  left  no  children,  was  to 
slip  into  the  pockets  of  her  husband. 

The  answer  I  wrote  to  this  audacious  proposal 
was  as  short  and  sharp  as  I  could  make  it : 

"My  dear  Sir, — I  maintain  clause  number 
so-and-so  exactly  as  it  stands.     Yours  truly." 

The  rejoinder  came  back  in  a  quarter  of  an 
hour: 

"  My  dear  Sir, — I  maintain  the  note  in  red 
ink  exactly  as  it  stands.     Yours  truly." 


In  the  detestable  slang  of  the  day  we  were 
now  both  "  at  a  dead  lock,"  and  nothing  was 
left  for  it  but  to  refer  to  our  clients  on  eithei 
side. 

As  matters  stood,  my  client — Miss  Fairlie 
not  having  yet  completed  her  twenty-first  year 
— was  her  guardian,  Mr.  Frederick  Fairlie.  I 
wrote  by  that  day's  post,  and  put  the  case  be- 
fore him  exactly  as  it  stood ;  not  only  urging 
every  argument  I  could  think  of  to  induce  him 
to  maintain  the  clause  as  I  had  drawn  it,  but 
stating  to  him  plainly  the  mercenary  motive 
which  was  at  the  bottom  of  the  opposition  to 
my  settlement  of  the  twenty  thousand  j)0unds. 
The  knowledge  of  Sir  Percival's  affairs  which  I 
necessarily  gained  when  the  provisions  of  the 
deed  on  his  side  were  submitted  in  due  course 
to  my  examination  had  but  too  plainly  inform- 
ed me  that  the  debts  on  his  estate  were  enor- 
mous, and  that  his  income,  though  nominally  a 
large  one,  was  virtually,  for  a  man  in  his  posi- 
tion, next  to  nothing.  The  want  of  ready  mon- 
ey was  the  practical  necessity  of  Sir  Percival's 
existence ;  and  his  lawyer's  note  on  the  clause 
in  the  settlement  was  nothing  but  the  frankly 
selfish  expression  of  it. 

Mr.  Fairlie's  answer  reached  me  by  return 
of  post,  and  proved  to  be  wandering  and  irrel- 
evant in  the  extreme.  Turned  into  plain  En- 
glish, it  practically  expressed  itself  to  this  ef- 
fect :  ' '  Would  dear  Gilmore  be  so  very  oliliging 
as  not  to  worry  his  friend  and  client  about  such 
a  trifle  as  a  remote  contingency  ?  Was  it  like- 
ly tliat  a  young  woman  of  twenty-one  would  die 
before  a  man  of  forty-five,  and  die  without  chil- 
dren? On  the  other  hand,  in  such  a  miserable 
world  as  this,  was  it  possible  to  overestimate  the 
value  of  peace  and  quietness?  If  those  two 
heavenly  blessings  were  offered  in  exchange  for 
such  an  earthly  trifle  as  a  remote  chance  of 
twenty  thousand  pounds,  was  it  not  a  fiiir  bar- 
gain ?  Surely,  yes.  Then  why  not  make  it?" 
I  threw  the  letter  away  from  me  in  disgust. 
Just  as  it  had  fluttered  to  the  ground  there  was 
a  knock  at  my  door,  and  Sir  Percival's  solicit- 
or, Mr.  ilerriman,  was  shown  in.  There  are 
many  varieties  of  sharp  practitioners  in  this 
world,  but  I  think  the  hardest  of  all  to  deal 
with  are  the  men  who  overreach  you  under  the 
disguise  of  inveterate  good-humor.  A  fat,  well- 
fed,  smiling,  friendly  man  of  business  is  of  all 
parties  to  a  bargain  the  most  hopeless  to  deal 
with.     IVIr.  Merriman  was  one  of  this  class. 

"And  how  is  good  Mr.  Gilmore  ?"  he  began, 
all  in  a  glow  with  the  warmth  of  his  own  amia- 
bility. ''Glad  to  see  you.  Sir,  in  such  excel- 
lent health.  I  was  passing  your  door,  and  I 
thought  I  would  look  in,  in  case  you  might  have 
something  to  say  to  me.  Do — now  pray  do  let 
us  settle  this  little  difference  of  ours  by  word  of 
mouth,  if  we  can!  Have  you  heard  from  your 
client  yet?" 

"Yes.  Have  you  heard  from  yours ?" 
"My  dear,  good  Sir,  I  wish  I  had  heard 
from  him  to  any  ]iurpose — I  wish,  with  all  my 
heart,  the  responsibility  was  off  my  shoulders  ; 
but  he  won't  take  it  off.  '  Merriman,  I  leave  de- 
tails to  you.  Do  what  you  think  right  for  my 
interests,  and  consider  me  as  having  personally 
withdrawn  from  the  business  until  it  is  all  over.' 
Those  were  Sir  Percival's  words  a  fortnight  ago  ; 
and  all  I  can  get  him  to  do  now  is  to  repeat 


64 


'IrHllililr'I'i^ 


mmm 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


,  Ijllljii'iiifilfM 


[m^, 


'he    walked    to  the    FIEE-PLACE    AKD    WAKMED   HIMSELF,      ETC. 


them.  I  am  not  a  hard  man,  Mr.  Gilmore,  as 
you  know.  Personally  and  privately,  I  do  assure 
you,  I  should  like  to  sponge  out  that  note  of 
mine  at  this  very  moment.  But  if  Sir  Fercival 
won't  go  into  the  matter,  if  Sir  Percival  will 
blindly  leave  all  his  interests  in  my  sole  care, 
what  course  can  I  possibly  take  except  the 
course  of  asserting  them?  My  hands  are  bound 
— don't  you  see,  my  dear  Sir? — my  hands  are 
boimd." 

"  You  maintain  your  note  on  the  clause,  then, 
to  the  letter  ?"  I  said. 

"Yes — deuce  take  it!  I  have  no  other  al- 
ternative." He  walked  to  the  fire-place  and 
warmed  himself,  humming  the  fag-end  of  a 
tune  in  a  ricli,  convivial  bass  voice.  "  What  does 
your  side  say  ?"  he  went  on  ;  "  now  pray  tell  me 
— what  does  your  side  say?" 

I  was  ashamed  to  tell  him.  I  attempted  to 
gain  time — nay,  I  did  worse.  My  legal  instincts 
got  the  better  of  me,  and  I  even  tried  to  bar- 
gain. 

"Twenty  thousand  pounds  is  rather  a  large 
sum  to  be  given  up  by  the  lady's  friends  at  two 
days'  notice,"  I  said. 

"Very  true,"  replied  Mr.  Mcrriman,  looking 
down  thoughtfully  at  his  boots.  "Properly  put, 
Sir — most  properly  put  I" 


"A  compromise,  recognizing  the  interests  of 
the  lady's  family  as  well  as  the  interests  of  the 
husband,  might  not,  perhaps,  have  frightened 
my  client  quite  so  much,"  I  went  on.  "  Come! 
come !  this  contingency  resolves  itself  into  a 
matter  of  bargaining,  after  all.  What  is  the 
least  you  will  take?" 

"The  least  we  will  take,"  said  Mr.  Merri- 
man,  "  is  nineteen-thousand-nine-hundred-and- 
ninety- nine -pounds -nineteen  -sliillings  -  and- 
eleven -pence -three -farthings.  Ha!  ha!  ha! 
Excuse  me,  Mr.  Gilmore.  I  must  have  my  lit- 
tle joke." 

"  Little  enough  !"  I  remarked.  "  The  joke  is 
just  worth  the  odd  fartliing  it  was  made  for." 

Mr.  Mcrriman  was  delighted.  He  laughed 
over  my  retort  till  the  room  rang  again.  1  was 
not  half  so  good-liumorcd  on  my  side :  I  came 
back  to  business,  and  closed  the  interview. 

"This  is  Friday,"  I  said.  "Give  us  till 
Tuesday  next  for  our  final  answer." 

"  B_v  all  means,"  rc])lied  Mr.  Merriman. 
"Longer,  my  dear  vSir,  if  you  like."  He  took 
u])  his  hat  to  go,  and  then  addressed  me  again. 
"By-the-way,"  he  said,  "your  clients  in  Cum- 
berland have  not  heard  any  thing  more  of  the 
woman  who  wrote  the  anonvmous  letter,  hare 
thcv  ?" 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


Gf) 


"Nothing  more,"  I  answered.  "Have  you 
found  no  trace  of  her  ?" 

"Not  yet,"  said  my  legal  friend.  "But  we 
don't  despair,  >^ir  Percival  has  liis  suspicions 
that  Somebody  is  keeping  her  in  hiding,  and 
we  are  having  that  Somebody  watched." 

"  You  mean  the  old  woman  who  was  with  her 
in  Cumberland  ?"  I  said. 

"Quite  another  party.  Sir,"  answered  Mr. 
Jlerriman.  "  We  don't  happen  to  have  laid 
hands  on  the  old  woman  yet.  Our  Somebody 
is  a  man.  We  have  got  him  close  under  our 
eye  here  in  London ;  and  we  strongly  suspect 
he  had  something  to  do  with  helping  her,  in  the 
first  instance,  to  escape  from  the  Asylum.  Sir 
Fercival  wanted  to  question  him  at  once;  but  I 
said,  'No.  Questioning  him  will  only  ]iut  him 
on  his  guard :  watch  him,  and  wait.'  We  shall 
see  what  happens.  A  dangerous  woman  to  be 
at  large,  Mr.  Gilmore  ;  nobody  knows  what  she 
may  do  next.  I  wish  you  good-morning.  Sir. 
On  Tuesday  next  I  shall  hope  for  the  pleasure 
of  hearing  from  you."  Ue  smiled  amiably,  and 
went  out. 

My  mind  had  been  rather  absent  during  the 
latter  part  of  the  conversation  with  my  legal 
friend.  I  was  so  anxious  about  the  matter  of 
the  settlement  that  I  had  little  attention  to  give 
to  any  other  subject ;  and  the  moment  I  was 
left  alone  again  I  began  to  think  over  what  my 
next  proceeding  ought  to  be. 

In  the  case  of  any  other  client  I  should  have 
acted  on  my  instructions,  however  personally 
distasteful  to  me,  and  have  given  up  the  point 
about  the  twenty  thousand  pounds  on  the  spot. 
But  I  could  not  act  with  this  business-like  in- 
difference toward  Miss  Fairlie.  I  had  an  hon- 
est feeling  of  affection  and  admiration  for  her ; 
I  remembered  gratefully  that  her  father  had 
been  the  kindest  patron  and  friend  to  me  that 
ever  man  had ;  I  had  felt  toward  her,  while  I 
was  drawing  the  settlement,  as  I  might  have 
felt,  if  I  had  not  been  an  old  baclielor,  toward 
a  daughter  of  my  own ;  and  I  was  determined 
to  spare  no  personal  sacrifice  in  her  service  and 
where  her  interests  were  concerned.  Writing 
a  second  time  to  Mr.  Fairlie  was  not  to  be 
thought  of;  it  would  only  be  giving  him  a  sec- 
ond opportunity  of  slipping  through  my  fingers. 
Seeing  him  and  personally  remonstrating  with 
him  might  possibly  be  of  more  use.  The  next 
day  was  Saturday.  I  determined  to  take  a  re- 
turn ticket,  and  jolt  my  old  bones  down  to  Cum- 
berland, on  the  chance  of  persuading  him  to 
adopt  the  just,  the  independent,  and  the  honor- 
able course.  It  was  a  poor  chance  enough,  no 
doubt ;  but  when  I  had  tried  it  my  conscience 
would  be  at  ease.  I  should  then  have  done  all 
that  a  man  in  my  position  could  do  to  serve  the 
interests  of  my  old  friend's  only  child. 

The  weather  on  Saturday  was  beautiful — a 
west  wind  and  a  bright  sun.  Having  felt  latter- 
ly a  return  of  that  fullness  and  oppression  of  the 
head  against  which  my  doctor  warned  me  so 
seriously  more  than  two  years  since,  I  resolved 
to  take  the  opportunity  of  getting  a  little  extra 
exercise,  by  sending  my  bag  on  liefore  me,  and 
walking  to  the  terminus  in  Euston  Square.  As 
I  came  out  into  Holborn  a  gentleman,  walking 
by  rapidly,  stopped  and  spoke  to  me.  It  was 
Mr.  Walter  Hartright. 

If  he  had  not  been  the  first  to  greet  me  I 
E 


should  certainly  have  passed  him.  He  was  so 
changed  that  I  hardly  knew  him  again.  His 
face  looked  pale  and  haggard — his  manner  was 
hurried  and  uncertain — and  his  dress,  which  I 
remembered  as  neat  and  gentlemanlike  when  I 
saw  him  at  Limmeridge,  was  so  slovenly  now 
that  I  should  really  have  been  ashamed  of  the 
appearance  of  it  on  one  of  my  own  clerks. 

"Have  you  been  long  back  from  Cumber- 
land?" he  asked.  "I  heard  from  Miss  Hal- 
combe  lately.  I  am  aware  that  Sir  Fercival 
Clyde's  explanation  has  been  considered  satis- 
factory. Will  the  marriage  take  place  soon? 
Do  you  happen  to  know,  Mr.  Gilmore  ?" 

He  spoke  so  fast,  and  crowded  his  questions 
together  so  strangely  and  confusedly,  that  I 
could  hardly  follow  him.  However  accidentally 
intimate  he  might  have  been  Avith  the  family  at 
Limmeridge,  I  could  not  see  that  he  had  any 
right  to  expect  information  on  their  private  af- 
fairs ;  and  I  determined  to  drop  him,  as  easily 
as  might  be,  on  the  subject  of  Miss  Fairlie's 
marriage. 

"Time  will  show,  Mr.  Hartright,"  I  said — 
"  time  will  show.  I  dare  say  if  we  look  out  for 
the  marriage  in  the  ])apers  we  shall  not  be  far 
wrong.  Excuse  my  noticing  it — but  I  am  sor- 
ry to  see  you  not  looking  so  well  as  you  were 
when  we  last  met." 

A  momentary  nervous  contraction  quivered 
about  his  lips  and  eyes,  and  made  me  half  re- 
proach myself  for  having  answered  him  in  such 
a  significantly-guarded  manner. 

"I  had  no  right  to  ask  about  her  marriage,'* 
he  said,  bitterly.     "  I  must  wait  to  see  it  in  the 


66 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


newspapers,  like  other  people.  Yes, "  he  went  on, 
before  I  could  make  any  apologies,  "I  have  not 
been  well  lately.  I  want  a  change  of  scene  and 
occupation.  You  have  a  large  circle  of  acquaint- 
ance, Mr.  Gilmore.  If  you  should  hear  of  any 
expedition  abroad  which  may  be  in  want  of  a 
draughtsman,  and  if  you  have  no  friend  of  your 
own  who  can  take  advantage  of  the  opportu- 
nity, I  should  feel  greatly  obliged  by  your  let- 
ting me  know  of  it.  I  can  answer  for  my  test- 
imonials being  satisfactory ;  and  I  don't  care 
where  I  go,  what  the  climate  is,  or  how  long  I 
am  away."  He  looked  about  him  while  he  said 
this  at  the  throng  of  strangers  passing  us  by  on 
either  side,  in  a  strange,  suspicious  manner,  as 
if  he  thought  that  some  of  them  might  be  watch- 
ing us. 

"  If  I  hear  of  any  thing  of  the  kind  I  will  not 
fail  to  mention  it,"  I  said ;  and  then  added,  so 
as  not  to  keep  liim  altogether  at  arm's-length  on 
the  subject  of  the  Fairlies,  "I  am  going  down 
to  Limmeridge  to-day  on  business.  Miss  Hal- 
combe  and  Miss  Fairlie  are  away,  just  now,  on 
a  visit  to  some  friends  in  Yorkshire." 

His  eyes  brightened,  and  he  seemed  about  to 
say  something  in  answer;  but  the  same  mo- 
mentary nervous  spasm  crossed  his  face  again. 
He  took  my  hand,  pressed  it  hard,  and  disap- 
peared among  the  crowd,  without  saying  anoth- 
er word.  Though  he  was  little  more  than  a 
stranger  to  me,  I  waited  for  a  moment,  looking 
after  him  almost  with  a  feeling  of  regret.  I  had 
gained,  in  my  profession,  sufficient  experience 
of  young  men  to  know  what  the  outward  signs 
and  tokens  were  of  their  beginning  to  go  wrong; 
and,  when  I  resumed  my  walk  to  the  railway,  I 
am  sorry  to  say  I  felt  more  than  doubtful  about 
Mr,  Hartright's  future. 

IV. 

Leaving  by  an  early  train  I  got  to  Limmer- 
idge in  time  for  dinner.  The  house  was  op- 
pressively empty  and  dull.  I  had  expected  that 
good  Mrs.  Vesey  would  have  been  company  for 
me  in  the  absence  of  the  young  ladies  ;  but  she 
was  confined  to  her  room  by  a  cold.  The  serv- 
ants were  so  surprised  at  seeing  me  that  they 
hurried  and  bustled  absurdly,  and  made  all  sorts 
of  annoying  mistakes.  Even  the  butler,  who 
was  old  enough  to  liave  known  better,  brought 
me  a  bottle  of  port  that  was  chilled.  The  re- 
ports of  Mr.  Fairlie's  health  were  just  as  usual ; 
and  when  I  sent  tip  a  message  to  announce  my 
arrival,  I  was  told  that  he  would  be  delighted  to 
see  me  the  next  morning,  but  that  the  sudden 
news  of  my  ajipearance  had  prostrated  him  with 
palpitations  for  the  rest  of  tlie  evening.  The 
winri  howled  dismally  all  night,  and  strange 
cracking  and  groaning  noises  sounded  here, 
there,  and  every  wliere  in  the  empty  house.  I 
slept  as  wretchedly  as  possible ;  and  got  up,  in 
a  mighty  liad  luimor,  to  breakfast  by  myself 
the  next  morning. 

At  ten  o'clock  I  was  conducted  to  Mr.  Fair- 
lie's  apartments.  He  was  in  bis  usual  room, 
his  usual  chair,  and  his  usual  aggravating  state 
of  mind  and  body.  When  I  went  in  his  valet 
was  standing  before  him,  holding  up  for  inspec- 
tion a  heavy  volume  of  etchings,  as  long  and  as 
broad  as  my  office  writing-desk.  The  misera- 
ble foreigner  grinned  in  the  most  abject  man- 
ner, and   looked   ready   to   drop  with   fatigue. 


while  his  master  composedly  turned  over  the 
etchings  and  brought  their  hidden  beauties  to 
light  with  the  help  of  a  magnifying  glass. 

"  You  very  best  of  good  old  friends,"  said  Mr. 
Fairlie,  leaning  back  lazily  before  he  could  look 
at  me,  "  are  you  qtdte  well?  How  nice  of  you 
to  come  here  and  see  me  in  my  solitude.  Dear 
Gilmore!" 

I  had  expected  that  the  valet  would  be  dis- 
missed when  I  apjieared ;  but  nothing  of  the 
sort  happened.  There  he  stood,  in  front  of  his 
master's  chair,  trembling  under  the  weight  of 
the  etchings ;  and  tliere  Mr.  Fairlie  sat  serenely 
twirling  the  magnifying  glass  between  his  white 
fingers  and  thumbs. 

"I  have  come  to  speak  to  you  on  a  very  im- 
portant matter,"  I  said,  "and  you  will  there- 
fore excuse  me  if  I  suggest  that  we  had  better 
be  alone." 

The  unfortunate  valet  looked  at  me  grateful- 
ly. Mr.  Fairlie  faintly  repeated  my  last  three 
words,  "better  be  alone,"  with  every  appear- 
ance of  the  utmost  possible  astonishment. 

I  was  in  no  humor  for  trifling,  and  I  resolved 
to  make  him  understand  what  I  meant. 

"Oblige  me  by  giving  tliat  man  permission 
to  withdraw,"  I  said,  pointing  to  the  valet. 

Mr.  Fairlie  arched  his  eyebrows,  and  pursed 
t;p  his  lips,  in  sarcastic  surprise. 

"Man?"  he  repeated.  "You  provoking  old 
Gilmore,  what  can  you  possibly  mean  by  calling 
him  a  man  ?  He's  nothing  of  the  sort.  He 
might  have  been  a  man  half  an  hour  ago,  before 
I  wanted  my  etchings ;  and  he  may  be  a  man 
half  an  hour  hence,  when  I  don't  want  them  any 
longer.  At  present  he  is  simply  a  port-folio  stand. 
Why  object,  Gilmore,  to  a  port-folio  stand?" 

"I  do  object.  For  the  third  time,  Mr.  Fair- 
lie,  I  beg  that  we  may  be  alone." 

My  tone  and  manner  left  him  no  alternative 
but  to  comply  with  my  request.  He  looked  at 
the  servant,  and  pointed  peevishly  to  a  chair  at 
his  side. 

"Put  down  the  etchings  and  go  away,"  he 
said.  "Don't  upset  me  by  losing  my  place. 
Have  you,  or  have  you  not,  lost  my  place  ?  Are 
you  sure  you  have  not?  And  have  3011  put  my 
hand-bell  quite  witliin  my  reach  ?  Yes  ?  Then, 
why  the  devil  don't  you  go?" 

The  valet  went  out.  Mr.  Fairlie  twisted  him- 
self round  in  Iiis  chair,  polished  the  magnifying 
glass  with  his  delicate  cambric  handkerchief, 
and  indulged  himself  in  a  sidelong  inspection 
of  tlie  open  volume  of  etchings.  It  was  not 
easy  to  keep  my  temper  under  these  circum- 
stances ;  but  I  did  keep  it. 

"I  have  come  here  at  great  personal  incon- 
A'enience,"  I  said,  "to  serve  the  interests  of 
your  niece  and  your  family  ;  and  I  think  I  have 
established  some  sliglit  claim  to  be  favored  with 
your  attention  in  return." 

"Don't  bully  mc !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Fairlie, 
falling  back  helplessly  in  the  chair,  and  closing 
his  eyes.  "  Please  don't  bully  me.  I'm  not 
strong  enough." 

I  was  determined  not  to  let  him  provoke  me 
for  Laura  Fairlie's  sake. 

"My  object,"  I  went  on,  "is  to  entreat  you 
to  reconsider  your  letter,  and  not  to  force  me 
to  abandon  the  just  rights  of  your  niece,  and  of 
all  who  belong  to  her.  Let  me  state  the  case 
to  you  once  more,  and  for  the  last  time." 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


67 


Mr.  Fairlie  shook  his  head,  and  sighed  pite- 
ously. 

"This  is  heartless  of  you,  Gilmore  —  very 
heartless,"  lie  said.     "Never  mind  ;  go  on." 

I  put  all  the  points  to  him  carefully ;  I  set 
the  matter  before  him  in  every  conceivable  light. 
He  lay  back  in  the  chair,  the  whole  time  I  was 
speaking,  with  his  eyes  closed.  When  I  had 
done  he  opened  them  indolently,  took  his  silver 
smelling-bottle  from  the  table,  and  sniti'ed  at  it 
witli  an  air  of  gentle  relish. 

"  Good  Gilmore !"  he  said,  between  the  sniffs, 
"  how  very  nice  this  is  of  you !  How  you  rec- 
oncile one  to  human  nature !" 

"  Give  me  a  plain  answer  to  a  plain  question, 
Mr.  Fairlie.  I  tell  you  again.  Sir  Percival 
Glyde  has  no  shadow  of  a  claim  to  expect  more 
than  the  income  of  the  money.  The  money  it- 
self, if  your  niece  has  no  children,  ought  to  be 
imder  her  control,  and  to  return  to  her  family. 
If  you  stand  firm  Sir  Percival  must  give  way — 
he  must  give  way,  I  tell  you,  or  he  exposes  him- 
self to  the  base  imputation  of  marrying  Miss 
Fairlie  entirely  from  mercenary  motives." 

Mr.  Fairlie  shook  the  silver  smelling-bottle  at 
me  playfully. 

"  You  dear  old  Gilmore ;  how  you  do  hate 
rank  and  family,  don't  you?  How  you  detest 
Glyde  because  he  happens  to  be  a  baronet. 
What  a  Radical  you  are — oh,  dear  me,  what  a 
Radical  you  are!" 

A  Radical ! ! !  I  could  put  up  with  a  great 
deal  of  provocation,  but,  after  holding  the  sound- 
est Conservative  principles  all  my  life,  I  could 
not  put  up  with  being  called  a  Radical.  My 
blood  boiled  at  it — I  started  out  of  my  chair — I 
was  speechless  with  indignation. 

"Don't  shake  the  room !"  cried  Mr.  Fairlie — 
"for  Heaven's  sake,  don't  shake  the  room! 
Worthiest  of  all  possible  Gilmores,  I  meant  no 
offense.  My  own  views  are  so  extremely  lib- 
eral that  I  think  I  am  a  Radical  myself.  Yes. 
W^e  ai-e  a  pair  of  Radicals.  Please  don't  be 
angry.  I  can't  quarrel  —  I  haven't  stamina 
enough.  Sliall  we  drop  the  subject?  Yes. 
Come  and  look  at  these  sweet  etchings.  Do 
let  me  teach  you  to  understand  the  heavenly 
pearliness  of  these  lines.  Do,  now;  there's  a 
good  Gilmore !" 

While  he  was  maundering  on  in  tliis  way,  I 
was,  fortunately  for  my  own  self-respect,  return- 
ing to  my  senses.  When  I  spoke  again  I  was 
composed  enough  to  treat  his  impertinence  with 
the  silent  contempt  that  it  deserved. 

"You  are  entirely  wrong.  Sir,"  I  said,  "in 
supposing  thati  speakfrom  any  prejudice  against 
Sir  Percival  Glyde.  I  may  regret  that  he  has 
so  unreservedly  resigned  himself,  in  this  matter, 
to  his  lawyer's  direction,  as  to  make  any  appeal 
to  himself  impossible ;  but  I  am  not  jn-ejudiced 
against  him.  What  I  have  said  would  equally 
apply  to  any  other  man  in  his  situation,  high 
or  low.  The  principle  I  maintain  is  a  recog- 
nized principle  among  lawyers.  If  you  were  to 
apply,  at  the  nearest  town  here,  to  "the  first  re- 
spectable practitioner  you  could  find,  he  would 
tell  you,  as  a  stranger,  what  I  tell  you  as  a 
friend.  He  would  inform  you  that  it  is  against 
all  rule  to  abandon  the  lady's  money  entirely 
to  the  man  she  marries.    He  would  decline,  on 


grounds  of  common  legal  caution,  to  give  the 
husband,  under  any  circumstances  whatever,  an 
interest  of  twenty  thousand  pounds  in  the  event 
of  the  wife's  death." 

"Would  he  really,  Gilmore?"  said  Mr.  Fair- 
lie.  "If  he  said  any  thing  half  so  horrid,  I  do 
assure  you  I  should  tinkle  my  bell  for  Louis, 
and  have  him  sent  out  of  the  house  immedi- 
ately." 

"  You  shall  not  irritate  me,  Mr.  Fairlie — for 
your  niece's  sake,  and  for  her  father's  sake,  you 
shall  not  irritate  me.  You  shall  take  the  whole 
resjionsibility  of  this  discreditable  settlement  on 
your  own  shoulders  before  I  leave  the  room." 

"Don't! — now  please  don't!"  said  Mr.  Fair- 
lie.  "Think  how  precious  your  time  is,  Gil- 
more ;  and  don't  throw  it  away.  I  would  dis- 
pute with  you  if  I  could,  but  I  can't — I  haven't 
stamina  enough.  You  want  to  upset  me,  to  up- 
set yourself,  to  upset  Glyde,  and  to  upset  Laura ; 
and — oh,  dear  me  ! — all  for  the  sake  of  the  very 
last  thing  in  the  world  that  is  likely  to  happen. 
No,  dear  friend — for  the  sake  of  peace  and  qui- 
etness, positively  No !" 

"  I  am  to  understand,  then,  that  you  hold  by 
the  determination  expressed  in  your  letter?" 

"  Yes,  please.  So  glad  we  understand  each 
other  at  last.     Sit  down  again — do !" 

I  walked  at  once  to  the  door ;  and  Mr.  Fair- 
lie  resignedly  "tinkled"  his  hand-bell.  Before 
I  left  the  room  I  turned  round  and  addressed 
him  for  the  last  time : 

"  Whatever  ha])pens  in  the  future.  Sir,"  I  said, 
"remember  that  my  plain  duty  of  warning  you 
has  been  performed.  As  the  faithful  friend  and 
servant  of  your  family,  I  tell  you,  at  parting, 
that  no  daughter  of  mine  should  be  married  to 
an}"  man  alive  under  such  a  settlement  as  you 
are  forcing  me  to  make  for  Miss  Fairlie." 

The  door  opened  behind  me,  and  the  valet 
stood  waiting  on  the  threshold. 

"Louis,"  said  Mr.  Fairlie,  "show  Mr.  Gil- 
more out,  and  then  come  back  and  hold  up  my 
sketchings  for  me  again.  Make  them  give  you 
a  good  lunch  down  stairs — do,  Gilmore,  make 
mv  idle  beasts  of  servants  give  you  a  good 
lunch." 

I  was  too  much  disgusted  to  reply ;  I  turned 
on  my  heel,  and  left  him  in  silence.  There 
was  an  up-train  at  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon, 
and  by  that  train  I  returned  to  London. 

On  the  Tuesday  I  sent  in  the  ahered  settle- 
ment, which  practically  disinherited  the  very  per- 
sons whom  INIiss  Fairlie's  own  lips  had  informed 
me  she  was  most  anxious  to  benefit.  I  had  no 
choice.  Another  lawyer  would  have  drawn  up 
the  deed  if  I  had  refused  to  undertake  it. 

My  task  is  done.  My  personal  share  in  the 
events  of  the  family  story  extends  no  farther 
than  the  point  which  I  have  just  readied.  Oth- 
er pens  than  mine  will  describe  the  strange  cir- 
cumstances which  are  now  shortly  to  follow. 
Seriously  and  sorrowfully  I  close  this  brief 
record.  Seriously  and  sorrowfulh'  I  repeat  here 
the  parting  words  that  I  spoke  at  Limmeridge 
House — No  daughter  of  mine  should  have  been 
married  to  any  man  alive  under  such  a  settle- 
ment as  I  was  compelled  to  make  for  Laura 
Fairlie. 


€8 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


THE    NARRATIVE    OF    MARIAN    HAL- 
COMBE,  TAKEN  FROM  HER  DIARY. 

;(:  Ht  *  *  *  *    J. 

LiMMEKiPGE  House,  November  T. 

This  morning  Mr.  Gilmore  left  us. 

His  interview  with  Laura  had  evidently  grieved 
nnd  surprised  him  more  than  he  liked  to  con- 
fess. I  felt  afraid,  from  his  look  and  manner 
when  we  parted,  that  she  might  have  inadvert- 
ently betrayed  to  him  the  real  secret  of  her  de- 
pression and  of  my  anxiety.  This  doubt  grew 
on  me  so,  after  he  had  gone,  that  I  declined 
riding  out  with  Sir  Percival,  and  went  up  to 
Laura's  room  instead. 

I  have  been  sadly  distrustful  of  myself  in  this 
difRcult  and  lamentable  matter  ever  since  I 
found  out  my  own  ignorance  of  the  strength  of 
Laura's  unhappy  attachment.  I  ought  to  have 
known  that  the  delicacy  and  forbearance  and 
sense  of  honor  which  drew  me  to  poor  Hart- 
right,  and  made  me  so  sincerely  admire  and 
respect  him,  were  just  the  qualities  to  appeal 
most  irresistiljly  to  Laura's  natural  sensitive- 
ness and  natural  generosity  of  nature-  And 
yet,  until  she  opened  her  heart  to  me  of  her 
own  accord,  I  had  no  suspicion  that  this  new 
feeling  had  taken  root  so  deeply.  I  once 
thought  time  and  care  might  remove  it.  I 
now  fear  that  it  will  remain  with  her  and  alter 
her  for  life.  The  discovery  that  I  have  com- 
mitted such  an  error  in  judgment  as  this  makes 
me  hesitate  about  every  thing  else.  I  hesitate 
about  Sir  Percival,  in  the  face  of  the  plainest 
])roofs.  I  hesitate  even  in  speaking  to  Laura. 
On  this  very  morning  I  doubted,  with  mj'  hand 
on  the  door,  whether  I  should  ask  her  the  ques- 
tions I  had  come  to  put  or  not. 

When  I  went  into  her  room  I  found  her  walk- 
ing up  and  down  in  great  impatience.  She 
looked  flushed  and  excited ;  and  she  came  for- 
ward at  once,  and  spoke  to  me  before  I  could 
open  my  lips. 

"  I  wanted  you,"  she  said.  "  Come  and  sit 
down  on  the  sofa  with  me.  Marian !  I  can 
bear  this  no  longer — I  must  and  will  end  it." 

There  was  too  much  color  in  her  cheeks,  too 
much  energy  in  her  manner,  too  much  firm- 
ness in  her  voice.  The  little  book  of  Hart- 
right's  drawings — the  fatal  book  that  she  will 
dream  over  whenever  she  is  alone — was  in  one 
of  her  hands.  I  began  by  gently  and  firmly 
taking  it  from  her,  and  putting  it  out  of  sight 
on  a  side-table. 

"Tell  me  quietly,  my  darling,  what  you  wish 
to  do,"  I  said.  "  Has  Mr.  Gilmore  been  advis- 
ing you  ?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "  No,  not  in  what  I  am 
thinking  of  now.  He  was  very  kind  and  good  to 
me,  Marian — and  I  am  ashamed  to  say  I  dis- 
tressed him  by  crying.  I  am  miserably  help- 
less ;  I  can't  control  myself.  For  my  own  sake, 
and  for  all  our  sakes,  I  must  have  courage 
enough  to  end  it." 

"  Do  you  mean  courage  enough  to  claim  your 
release  ?"  I  asked. 

"  No,"  she  said,  simply.  "  Courage,  dear,  to 
tell  the  truth." 

t  Tl\e  passages  oniittod,  here  and  elsewhere,  in  Miss 
IlKlconilie's  Diiivy,  are  only  those  wliicli  bear  no  refer- 
eiicn  to  Miss  Fairlie,  or  to  any  of  tho  iJersous  with  wliora 
Bhe  is  as.sociatcd  in  IIh'SO  jiagcs. 


She  put  her  arms  round  my  neck,  and  rested 
her  head  quietly  on  my  bosom.  On  the  oppo- 
site wall  hung  the  miniature  portrait  of  her  fa- 
ther. I  bent  over  her,  and  saw  that  she  was 
looking  at  it  while  her  head  lay  on  my  breast. 

"  I  can  never  claim  my  release  from  my  en- 
gagement," she  went  on.  "Whatever  way  it 
ends,  it  nmst  end  wretchedly  for  me.  All  I  can 
do,  Marian,  is  not  to  add  the  remembrance  that 
I  have  broken  my  promise  and  forgotten  my 
father's  dying  words,  to  make  that  wretchedness 
worse. " 

"  What  is  it  you  propose,  then  ?"  I  asked. 

"To  tell  Sir  Percival  Clyde  the  truth  with 
my  own  lips,"  she  answered,  "and  to  let  him 
release  me  if  he  will,  not  because  I  ask  him, 
but  because  he  knows  all." 

"What  do  you  mean,  Laura,  by  'all?'  Sir 
Percival  will  know  enough  (he  has  told  me  so 
himself)  if  he  knows  that  the  engagement  is 
opposed  to  your  own  wishes." 

"  Can  I  tell  him  that,  when  the  engagement 
was  made  for  me  by  my  father,  with  my  own 
consent?  I  should  have  kept  my  promise;  not 
happily,  I  am  afraid ;  but  still  contentedly" — 
she  stopped,  turned  her  face  to  me,  and  laid  her 
cheek  close  against  mine — "  I  should  have  kept 
my  engagement,  Marian,  if  another  love  had 
not  grown  up  in  my  heart,  which  was  not  there 
when  I  first  jjromised  to  be  Sir  Percival's wife.' 

"Laura!  you  will  never  lower  yourself  by 
making  a  confession  to  him?" 

"I  shall  lower  myself,  indeed,  if  I  gain  my 
release  by  hiding  from  him  what  he  has  a  right 
to  know." 

"He  has  not  the  shadow  of  a  right  to  know 
it!" 

"Wrong,  Marian,  wrong !  I  ought  to  deceive 
no  one — least  of  all  the  man  to  whom  my  father 
gave  me,  and  to  whom  I  gave  myself."  She  put 
her  lips  to  mine,  and  kissed  me.  "My  own 
love,"  she  said,  softly,  "you  are  so  much  too 
fond  of  me,  and  so  much  too  proud  of  me,  that 
you  forget  in  my  case  what  you  would  remem- 
ber in  your  own.  Better  that  Sir  Percival  should 
doubt  my  motives  and  misjudge  my  conduct,  if 
he  will,  than  tliat  I  should  be  first  false  to  him 
in  thought,  and  then  mean  enough  to  serve  my 
own  interests  by  hiding  the  falseliood." 

I  lield  her  away  from  me  in  astonishment. 
For  the  first  time  in  our  lives  we  had  changed 
places ;  the  resolution  was  all  on  her  side,  the 
hesitation  all  on  mine.  I  looked  into  the  pale, 
quiet,  I'csigned  young  face ;  I  saw  the  pure,  in- 
nocent heart,  in  the  loving  eyes  that  looked  back 
at  me — and  the  poor,  worldly  cautions  and  ob- 
jections that  rose  to  my  lips,  dwindled  and  diet! 
away  in  their  own  emptiness.  I  hung  my  head 
in  silence.  In  her  place  the  despicably  small 
])ride  which  makes  so  many  women  deceitful 
would  have  been  my  pride,  and  would  have 
made  me  deceitful,  too. 

"  Don't  be  angry  with  me,  Marian,"  she  said, 
mistaking  my  silence. 

I  only  answered  by  drawing  her  close  to  me 
again.  I  was  afraid  of  crying  if  I  sjwke.  My 
tears  do  not  flow  so  easily  as  they  ought — they 
come,  almost  like  men's  tears,  with  sobs  that 
seem  to  tear  me  in  pieces,  and  that  frighten  ev- 
ery one  about  mc. 

"  I  have  thought  of  this,  love,  for  many  days," 
she  went  on,  twining  and  twisting  my  hair,  with 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


69 


, r,|.:||iljli|il^]!|||!il|li!l|iil|| 


/''ii! 


■iM 


i  J|||;  ,,,>:i|i||!l,||g,. 


"AND    RESTED    IIER    HEAD   QUIETLY    ON    MY  BOSOM. 


that  childish  restlessness  in  her  fingers,  which 
l)Oor  Mrs.  Vesey  still  tries  so  patiently  and  so 
vainly  to  cure  her  of — "  I  have  thought  of  it 
very  seriously,  and  I  can  be  sure  of  my  courage, 
when  my  own  conscience  tells  me  I  am  right. 
Let  me  speak  to  him  to-morrow — in  your  pres- 
ence, Marian.  I  will  say  nothing  that  is  wrong, 
nothing  that  you  or  I  need  be  ashamed  of — but, 
oh,  it  will  ease  my  heart  so  to  end  this  miser- 
able concealment!  Only  let  me  know  and  feel 
that  I  have  no  deception  to  answer  for  on  my 
side;  and  tlien, when  he  has  heard  what  I  have 
to  say,  let  him  act  toward  me  as  he  will." 

She  sighed,  and  put  her  head  back  in  its  old 
position  on  my  bosom.  Sad  misgivings  about 
what  the  end  would  be  weighed  on  my  mind ; 
but,  still  distrusting  myself,  I  told  her  that  I 
would  do  as  she  wished.  She  thanked  me, 
and  we  passed  gradually  into  talking  of  other 
things. 

At  dinner  she  joined  ns  again,  and  was  more 
easy  and  more  herself  with  Sir  Percival  than  I 
have  seen  her  j^et.  In  the  evening  she  went  to 
the  piano,  choosing  new  music  of  the  dexterous, 
tuneless,  florid  kind.  The  lovely  old  melodies 
of  Mozart,  which  poor  Hartright  was  so  fond  of, 
she  has  never  played  since  he  left.  The  book 
13  no  longer  in  the  music-stand.     She  took  the 


volume  away  herself,  so  that  nobody  might  find 
it  out  and  ask  her  to  play  from  it. 

I  had  no  o]iportunity  of  discovering  whether 
her  purpose  of  tlie  morning  had  changed  or  not, 
until  she  wished  Sir  Percival  good-night — and 
then  her  own  words  informed  me  that  it  was 
unaltered.  She  said,  very  quietly,  that  she 
wished  to  speak  to  him  after  breakfast,  and  that 
he  would  find  her  in  her  sitting-room  with  me. 
He  changed  color  at  those  words,  and  I  felt 
his  hand  trembling  a  little  when  it  came  to  my 
turn  to  take  it.  The  event  of  the  next  morning 
would  decide  his  future  life;  and  he  evidently 
knew  it. 

I  went  in,  as  usual,  through  the  door  between 
our  two  bedrooms,  to  bid  Laura  good-night  be- 
fore she  went  to  sleep.  In  stooping  over  her  to 
kiss  her,  I  saw  the  little  book  of  Ilartright's 
drawings  half  hidden  under  her  jiillow,  just  in 
the  place  where  she  used  to  hide  her  favorite 
toys  when  she  was  a  child.  I  could  not  find  it 
in  my  heart  to  say  any  thing;  but  I  pointed  to 
the  book  and  shook  my  head.  She  reached  both 
hands  up  to  my  cheeks,  and  drew  my  face  down 
to  hers  till  our  lips  met. 

"Leave  it  there  to-night,"  she  whispered; 
"  to-morrow  may  be  cruel,  and  may  make  me 
say  good-by  to  it  forever." 


70 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


8th. — The  first  event  of  the  morninrr  was  not 
of  a  kind  to  raise  my  spirits ;  a  letter  arrived  for 
me  from  poor  Walter  Hartright.  It  is  the  an- 
swer to  mine  describing  the  manner  in  which  Sir 
Percival  cleared  himself  of  the  suspicions  raised 
by  Anne  Catherick's  letter.  He  writes  shortly 
and  bitterly  about  Sir  Percival's  explanations; 
only  saying  that  he  has  no  right  to  offer  an 
opinion  on  the  conduct  of  those  who  are  above 
him.  This  is  sad ;  but  his  occasional  references 
to  himself  grieve  me  still  more.  He  says  that 
the  effort  to  return  to  his  old  habits  and  pur- 
suits grows  harder  instead  of  easier  to  him  ev- 
ery day  ;  and  he  implores  me,  if  I  have  any  in- 
terest, to  exert  it  to  get  him  employment  that 
will  necessitate  his  absence  from  England,  and 
take  him  among  new  scenes  and  new  people. 
I  have  been  made  all  the  readier  to  comply  with 
this  request  by  a  passage  at  the  end  of  his  let- 
ter which  has  almost  alarmed  me. 

After  mentioning  that  he  has  neither  seen  nor 
heard  anything  of  Anne  Catherick,  he  suddenly 
breaks  off,  and  hints  in  the  most  abrupt,  myste- 
rious manner,  that  he  has  been  perpetually 
watched  and  followed  by  strange  men  ever 
since  he  returned  to  London.  He  acknowledges 
that  he  can  not  prove  this  extraordinary  suspi- 
cion by  fixing  on  any  particular  persons ;  but 
he  declares  that  the  suspicion  itself  is  present 
to  him  night  and  day.  This  has  frightened  me, 
because  it  looks  as  if  his  one  fixed  idea  about 
Laura  was  becoming  too  much  for  his  mind.  I 
will  write  immediately  to  some  of  my  mother's 
influential  old  friends  in  London,  and  press  his 
claims  on  their  notice.  Change  of  scene  and 
change  of  occupation  may  really  be  the  salva- 
tion of  him  at  this  crisis  in  his  life. 

Greatly  to  my  relief,  Sir  Percival  sent  an 
apology  for  not  joining  us  at  breakfast.  He  had 
taken  an  early  cup  of  coftee  ih  his  own  room, 
and  he  was  still  engaged  there  in  writing  letters. 
At  eleven  o'clock,  if  that  hour  was  convenient, 
he  would  do  himself  the  honor  of  waiting  on 
Miss  Fairlie  and  Miss  Halcombe. 

My  eyes  were  on  Laura's  face  while  the  mes- 
sage was  being  delivered.  I  had  found  her  un- 
accountably quiet  and  composed  on  going  into 
her  room  in  the  morning;  and  so  she  remained 
all  through  breakfast.  Even  when  we  were  sit- 
ting together  on  the  sofa  in  her  room,  waiting 
for  Sir  Percival,  she  still  preserved  her  self- 
control. 

"Don't  be  afraid  of  me,  Marian,"  was  all  she 
said:  "I  may  forget  myself  with  an  old  friend 
like  Mr.  Gilmore,  or  Avith  a  dear  sister  like  you; 
but  I  will  not  forget  myself  with  Sir  Percival 
Clyde." 

I  looked  at  her,  and  listened  to  her  in  silent 
surprise.  Through  all  the  years  of  our  close  in- 
timacy this  passive  force  in  her  character  had 
been  hidden  from  me  —  hidden  even  from  her- 
self, till  love  found  it,  and  suffering  called  it 
forth. 

As  the  clock  on  the  mantle-piece  struck  eleven 
Sir  Percival  knocked  at  the  door  and  came  in. 
There  was  suppressed  anxiety  and  agitation  in 
every  line  of  his  face.  The  dry,  sharp  cough, 
which  teases  him  at  most  times,  seemed  to  be 
troubling  him  more  incessantly  than  ever.  He 
sat  down  ojjposite  to  us  at  the  table  ;  and  Laura 
remained  by  me.  I  looked  attentively  at  them 
both,  and  ho  was  the  palest  of  the  two. 


He  said  a  few  unimportant  words,  with  a  vis- 
ible effort  to  preserve  his  customary  ease  of  man- 
ner. But  his  voice  was  not  to  be  steadied,  and 
the  restless  uneasiness  in  his  eyes  was  not  to  be 
concealed.  He  must  have  felt  this  himself; 
for  he  stopped  in  the  middle  of  a  sentence,  and 
gave  up  even  the  attempt  to  hide  his  embarrass- 
ment any  longer. 

There  was  just  one  moment  of  dead  silence 
before  Laura  addressed  him. 

"I  wish  to  speak  to  you.  Sir  Percival,"  she 
said,  "on  a  subject  that  is  very  important  to  us 
both.  My  sister  is  here,  because  her  presence 
helps  me,  and  gives  me  confidence.  She  has 
not  suggested  one  word  of  what  I  am  going  to 
say:  I  speak  from  my  own  thoughts,  not  from 
hers.  I  am  sure  you  will  be  kind  enough  to 
understand  that  before  I  go  any  farther  ?" 

Sir  Percival  bowed.  She  had  proceeded  thus 
far,  with  perfect  outward  tranquillity,  and  per- 
fect propriety  of  manner.  She  looked  at  him, 
and  he  looked  at  her.  They  seemed,  at  the  out- 
set at  least,  resolved  to  understand  one  another 
plainly. 

'•I  have  heard  from  Marian,"  she  went  on, 
"that  I  have  only  to  claim  my  release  from  our 
engagement  to  obtain  that  release  from  you. 
It  was  forbearing  and  generous  on  your  part, 
Sir  Percival,  to  send  me  such  a  message.  It  is 
only  doing  you  justice  to  say  that  I  am  grateful 
for  the  offer,  and  I  hope  and  believe  that  it  is 
only  doing  myself  justice  to  tell  you  that  I  de- 
cline to  accept  it." 

His  attentive  face  brightened  and  relaxed  ; 
he  seemed  to  breathe  more  freely.  But  I  saw- 
one  of  his  feet,  softly,  quietly,  incessantly  beat- 
ing on  the  carpet  under  the  table,  and  I  felt 
that  he  was  secretly  as  anxious  as  ever. 

"I  have  not  forgotten,"  she  said,  "that  yon 
asked  my  father's  permission  before  you  honored 
me  with  a  proposal  of  marriage.  Perhaps  yon 
have  not  forgotten,  either,  what  I  said  when  I 
consented  to  our  engagement  ?  I  ventured  to 
tell  you  that  my  father's  influence  and  advice 
had  mainly  decided  me  to  give  you  my  promise. 
I  was  guided  by  my  father,  because  I  had  al- 
ways found  him  the  truest  of  all  advisers,  the 
best  and  fondest  of  all  protectors  and  friends. 
I  have  lost  him  now  ;  I  have  only  his  memory 
to  love;  but  my  faith  in  that  dear  dead  friend 
has  never  been  shaken.  I  believe,  at  this  mo- 
ment, as  truly  as  I  ever  believed,  that  he  knew 
what  was  best,  and  that  his  hopes  and  wishes 
ought  to  be  my  hopes  and  wishes  too." 

Her  voice  trembled  for  the  first  time.  Her 
restless  fingers  stole  their  way  into  my  lap,  and 
held  fast  by  one  of  my  hands.  There  was  an- 
other moment  of  silence ;  and  then  Sir  Percival 
spoke. 

"  May  I  ask,"  he  said,  "  if  I  have  ever  proved 
myself  unworthy  of  the  trust  which  it  has  been 
hitherto  my  greatest  honor  and  greatest  happi- 
ness to  possess  ?" 

"I  have  found  nothing  in  your  conduct  to 
blame,"  she  answered.  "  You  have  always 
treated  me  with  the  same  delicacy  and  the  same 
forbearance.  You  have  deserved  my  trust ;  and, 
what  is  of  far  more  imiiortancc  in  my  estimation, 
you  have  deserved  my  father's  trust,  out  of  which 
mine  grew.  You  have  given  mo  no  excuse,  even 
if  I  had  wished  to  find  one,  for  asking  to  bo  re- 
leased from  my  pledge.     What  I  liavo  said  so 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


71 


far,  has  been  spoken  with  the  wish  to  acknowl- 
edge my  whole  obligation  to  you.  My  regard 
for  that  obligation,  my  regard  for  my  father's 
memory,  and  my  regard  for  my  own  promise, 
all  forbid  me  to  set  the  example,  on  my  side,  of 
withdrawing  from  our  present  position.  The 
breaking  of  our  engagement  must  be  entirely 
your  wish  and  your  act,  Sir  Percival — not 
mine." 

The  uneasy  beating  of  his  foot  suddenly 
stopped,  and  he  leaned  forward  eagerly  across 
the  table. 

"  My  act  ?"  he  said.  "  What  reason  can  there 
be  on  my  side  for  withdrawing?" 

I  heard  her  breath  quickening ;  I  felt  her 
hand  growing  cold.  In  spite  of  what  she  had 
said  to  me  when  we  were  alone,  I  began  to  be 
afraid  of  her.     I  was  wrong. 

"A  reason  that  it  is  very  hard  to  tell  you," 
she  answered.  "There  is  a  change  in  me,  Sir 
Percival — a  change  which  is  serious  enough  to 
justify  you,  to  yourself  and  to  me,  in  breaking 
off  our  engagement." 

His  face  turned  so  pale  again  that  even  his 
lips  lost  their  color.  He  raised  the  arm  which 
lay  on  the  table,  turned  a  little  away  in  his 
chair,  and  supported  his  head  on  his  hand,  so 
that  his  profile  only  was  presented  to  us. 

"What  change?"  he  asked. 

She  sighed  heavily,  and  leaned  toward  me  a 
little,  so  as  to  rest  her  shoulder  against  mine. 
I  felt  her  trembling,  and  tried  to  spare  her  by 
speaking  myself  She  stopped  me  by  a  warn- 
ing pressure  of  her  hand,  and  then  addressed 
Sir  Percival  once  more,  but  this  time  without 
looking  at  him. 

"I  have  heard,"  she  said,  "and  I  believe  it, 
that  tlie  fondest  and  truest  of  all  affections  is 
the  affection  wliich  a  woman  ought  to  bear  to 
her  husband.  When  our  engagement  began,  that 
affection  was  mine  to  give,  if  I  could,  and  yours 
to  win,  if  you  could.  Will  yon  pardon  me,  and 
spare  me.  Sir  Percival,  if  I  acknowledge  that  it 
is  not  so  any  longer?" 

A  few  tears  gathered  in  her  eyes,  and  dropped 
over  her  cheeks  slowly,  as  she  paused  and  wait- 
ed for  his  answer.  He  did  not  utter  a  word. 
At  the  beginning  of  her  reply  he  had  moved  the 
hand  on  which  his  head  rested  so  that  it  hid  his 
face.  I  saw  nothing  but  the  upper  part  of  his 
figure  at  the  table.  Not  a  muscle  of  him  moved. 
The  fingers  of  the  hand  which  supported  his 
head  were  dented  deep  in  his  hair;  but  there 
was  no  significant  trembling  in  them.  There 
was  nothing,  absolutely  nothing,  to  tell  the  se- 
ci'et  of  his  thoughts  at  that  moment — the  mo- 
ment which  was  the  crisis  of  his  life  and  the 
ci'isis  of  hers. 

I  was  determined  to  make  him  declare  him- 
self, for  Laura's  sake, 

"  Sir  Percival !"  I  interposed,  sharply,  "have 
you  nothing  to  say,  when  my  sister  has  said  so 
much?  More,  to  my  opinion,"  I  added,  my 
unlucky  temper  getting  the  better  of  me,  "  than 
any  man  alive,  in  your  position,  has  a  right  to 
hear  from  her." 

That  last  rash  sentence  opened  a  way  for  him 
by  which  to  escape  me  if  he  chose  ;  and  he  in- 
stantly took  advantage  of  it. 

"Pardon  me,  Miss  Haleombe,"  he  said,  still 
keeping  his  hand  over  his  face — "  pardon  me,  if 
I  remind  you  that  I  have  claimed  no  such  right." 


The  few  plain  words  which  would  have 
brought  him  back  to  the  point  from  which  he 
had  wandered  were  just  on  my  lips,  when  Lau- 
ra checked  me  by  speaking  again. 

"  I  hope  I  have  not  made  my  painful  acknowl- 
edgment in  vain,"  she  continued.  "I  hope  it 
has  secured  me  your  entire  confidence  in  what 
I  have  still  to  say  ?" 

"  Pray  be  assured  of  it."  He  made  that 
brief  reply,  warmly ;  dropping  his  hand  on  the 
table  while  he  spoke,  and  turning  toward  us 
again.  Whatever  outward  change  had  passed 
over  him  was  gone  now.  His  face  was  eager 
and  expectant — it  expressed  nothing  but  the 
most  intense  anxiety  to  hear  her  next  words. 

"  I  wish  you  to  understand  that  I  have  not 
spoken  from  any  selfish  motive,"  she  said.  "  If 
you  leave  me,  Sir  Percival,  after  what  you  have 
just  heard,  you  do  not  leave  me  to  marry  an- 
other man — you  only  allow  me  to  remain  a  sin- 
gle woman  for  the  rest  of  my  life.  My  fault 
toward  you  has  begun  and  ended  in  my  own 
thoughts.  It  can  never  go  any  farther.  No 
word  has  passed — "  She  hesitated,  in  doubt 
about  the  expression  she  should  use  next ;  hesi- 
tated, in  a  momentary  confusion  which  it  was 
very  sad  and  very  painful  to  see.  "No  word 
has  passed,"  she  patiently  and  resolutely  re- 
sumed, "  between  myself  and  the  person  to 
whom  I  am  now  referring  for  the  first  and  last 
time  in  your  presence,  of  my  feelings  toward 
him,  or  of  his  feelings  toward  me — no  word 
ever  can  pass — neither  he  nor  I  are  likelj',  in 
this  world,  to  meet  again.  I  earnestly  beg  you 
to  spare  me  from  saying  any  more,  and  to  be- 
lieve me,  on  my  word,  in  what  I  have  just  told 
yon.  It  is  the  truth,  Sir  Percival — the  truth 
which  /think  my  promised  husband  has  a  claim 
to  hear,  at  any  sacrifice  of  my  own  feelings.  I 
trust  to  his  generosity  to  pardon  me,  and  to  his 
honor  to  keep  my  secret." 

"Both  those  trusts  are  sacred  to  me,"  he  said, 
"and  both  shall  be  sacredly  kept." 

After  answering  in  those  terms,  he  paused, 
and  looked  at  her  as  if  he  was  waiting  to  hear 
more. 

"I  have  said  all  I  wished  to  say, "she  added, 
quietly ;  "  I  have  said  more  than  enough  to 
justify  you  in  withdrawing  from  your  engage- 
ment." 

"  You  have  said  more  than  enough,"  he  an- 
swered, "to  make  it  the  dearest  object  of  my 
life  to  keep  the  engagement."  With  those  words 
he  rose  from  his  chair,  and  advanced  a  few  steps 
toward  the  place  where  she  was  sitting. 

Slie  started  violently,  and  a  faint  cry  of  sur- 
prise escaped  her.  Every  word  she  had  spoken 
had  innocently  betrayed  her  purity  and  truth  to 
a  man  who  thoroughly  understood  the  priceless 
value  of  a  pure  and  true  woman.  Her  own  no- 
ble conduct  had  been  the  hidden  enemy,  through- 
out, of  all  the  hopes  she  had  trusted  to  it.  I 
had  dreaded  this  from  the  first.  I  would  have 
prevented  it,  if  she  had  allowed  me  the  smallest 
chance  of  doing  so.  I  even  waited  and  watched, 
now,  when  the  harm  was  done,  for  a  word  from 
Sir  Percival  that  would  give  me  the  opportunity 
of  putting  him  in  the  wrong. 

"  You  have  left  it  to  me,  Miss  Fairlie,  to  re- 
sign you,"  he  continued.  "I  am  not  heartless 
enough  to  resign  a  woman  who  has  just  shown 
herself  to  be  the  noblest  of  her  sex. " 


72 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


"and  pinned  it  carefully  in  the  form  of  a  circle. 


He  spoke  with  such  warmth  and  feeling,  with 
such  passionate  enthusiasm  and  yet  with  such 
perfect  delicacy,  that  she  raised  her  head,  flushed 
lip  a  little,  and  looked  at  him  with  sudden  ani- 
mation and  spirit. 

"No !"  she  said,  firmly.  "The  most  wretched 
of  her  sex,  if  she  must  give  herself  in  marriage 
when  she  can  not  give  her  love." 

"May  she  not  give  it  in  the  future," he  asked, 
"  if  the  one  object  of  her  husband's  life  is  to  de- 
serve it?" 

"Never!"  she  answered.  "If  you  still  per- 
sist in  maintaining  our  engagement,  I  may  be 
your  true  and  faithful  wife.  Sir  Fercival — your 
loving  wife,  if  I  know  my  own  heart,  never!" 

She  looked  so  irresistibly  beautiful  as  she  said 
those  brave  words  that  no  man  alive  could  have 
steeled  his  heart  against  her.  I  tried  hard  to 
feel  that  Sir  Percival  was  to  blame,  and  to  say 
so;  but  my  womanhood  would  pity  him  in  spite 
of  myself. 

"I  gratefully  accept  your  faith  and  truth," 
he  said.  "The  least  tliat  yoti  can  offer  is  more 
to  me  than  the  utmost  that  I  could  hope  for 
from  any  other  woman  in  the  world." 

Her  left  hand  still  licid  mine,  but  her  right 
hand  hung  listlessly  at  her  side.  He  raised  it 
gently  to  his  lips — touched  it  with  them  rather 


j  than  kissed  it — bowed  to  me — and  then,  with 
I  perfect  delicacy  and  discretion,  silently  quitted 
the  room. 

She  neither  moved  nor  said  a  word  when  he 
was  gone;  she  sat  by  me,  cold  and  still,  with 
her  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground.  I  saw  it  was 
hopeless  and  useless  to  speak,  and  I  only  put 
my  arm  round  her,  and  held  her  to  me  in  si- 
lence. We  remained  together  so  for  what 
seemed  a  long  and  wear}'  time — so  long  and  so 
weary  that  I  grew  uneasy,  and  spoke  to  her  soft- 
ly, in  the  hope  of  producing  a  change. 

The  sound  of  my  voice  seemed  to  startle  lier 
into  consciousness.  She  suddenly  drew  herself 
away  from  me  and  rose  to  her  feet. 

"I  must  submit,  Marian,  as  well  as  I  can," 
she  said.  "  My  new  life  has  its  hard  duties, 
and  one  of  them  begins  to-day." 

As  she  spoke  she  went  to  a  side-table  near 
the  window,  on  which  her  sketching  materials 
were  placed,  gathered  them  together  carefully, 
and  ])ut  thcni  in  a  drawer  of  ber  ca))inet.  She 
locked  the  drawer  and  brouglit  the  key  to  me. 

"I  must  part  from  every  thing  that  reminds 
me  of  him,"  she  said.  "  Keep  the  key  wherevei' 
yon  please — I  shall  never  want  it  again." 

Before  I  could  say  a  word  she  had  turned 
away  to  her  book-case,  and  had  taken  from  it 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


73 


the  album  that  contained  Walter  Hartright's 
drawings.  She  hesitated  for  a  moment,  hold- 
ing the  little  volume  fondly  in  her  hands — then 
lifted  it  to  her  lips  and  kissed  it. 

"Oh,  Laura!  Laura!"  I  said,  not  angrily, 
not  reprovingly — with  nothing  but  sorrow  in  my 
voice,  and  nothing  but  sorrow  in  my  heart. 

"It  is  the  last  time,  Marian,"  she  pleaded. 
"I  am  bidding  it  good-by  forever." 

She  laid  the  book  ou  the  table  and  drew  out 
the  comb  that  fastened  her  hair.  It  fell,  in  its 
matchless  beauty,  over  her  back  and  shoulders, 
and  dropped  round  her  far  below  her  waist.  She 
separated  one  long,  thin  lock  from  the  rest,  cut 
it  off,  and  pinned  it  carefully,  in  the  form  of  a 
circle,  on  the  first  blank  page  of  the  album. 
The  moment  it  was  fastened  she  closed  the  vol- 
ume hurriedly,  and  placed  it  in  my  hands. 

"You  write  to  him,  and  he  writes  to  you," 
she  said.  "While  I  am  alive,  if  he  asks  after 
me,  always  tell  him  I  am  well,  and  never  say  I 
am  unhappy.  Don't  distress  him,  Marian — for 
viy  sake,  don't  distress  him.  If  I  die  first,  prom- 
ise you  will  give  him  this  little  book  of  his  draw- 
ings, with  my  hair  in  it.  There  can  be  no  harm, 
when  I  am  gone,  in  telling  him  that  I  put  it 
there  with  my  own  hands.  And  say — oh,  Ma- 
rian, say  ibr  me,  then,  wliat  I  can  never  say  for 
myself — say  I  loved  him  !" 

She  flung  her  arms  round  my  neck,  and  whis- 
pered the  last  words  in  my  car  with  a  passion- 
ate deliglit  in  uttering  them  which  it  almost 
broke  my  heart  to  hear.  All  the  long  restraint 
she  had  imposed  on  herself  gave  way  in  that 
first  last  outburst  of  tenderness.  She  broke 
from  me  with  hysterical  vehemence,  and  threw 
herself  ou  the  sofa  in  a  paroxysm  of  sobs  and 
tears  that  shook  her  from  head  to  foot. 

I  tried  vainly  to  soothe  her  and  reason  with 
her:  she  was  past  being  sootlied,  and  past  being 
reasoned  with.  It  was  tlie  sad,  sudden  end,  for 
us  two,  of  this  memorable  day.  When  the  fit 
had  worn  itself  out  she  was  too  exhausted  to 
speak.  She  slumbered  toward  the  afternoon ; 
and  I  put  away  the  book  of  drawings  so  that 
she  might  not  see  it  when  she  woke.  My  face 
was  calm,  whatever  my  heart  might  be,  when 
she  opened  her  eyes  again  and  looked  at  me. 
We  said  no  more  to  each  other  about  the  dis- 
tressing interview  of  the  morning.  Sir  Perci- 
val's  name  was  not  mentioned,  Walter  Hartright 
was  not  alluded  to  again  by  either  of  us  for  the 
remainder  of  the  day. 

^tli. — Finding  that  she  was  composed  and  like 
herself  this  morning,  I  returned  to  tlie  painful 
subject  of  yesterday,  for'the  sole  purpose  of  im- 
ploring her  to  let  me  speak  to  Sir  Percival  and 
Mr.  Fairlie,  more  plainly  and  strongly  than  she 
could  speak  to  either  of  them  herself,  about  this 
lamentable  marriage.  She  interposed,  gently 
but  firmly,  in  the  middle  of  my  remonstrances. 

"I  left  yesterday  to  decide,"  she  said;  "and 
yesterday /;as  decided.     It  is  too  late  to  go  back." 

Sir  Percival  spoke  to  me  this  afternoon,  feel- 
ingly and  unreservedly,  about  what  had  passed 
in  Laura's  room.  He  assured  me  that  the  un- 
paralleled trust  she  had  placed  in  him  had 
awakened  such  an  answering  conviction  of  her 
innocence  and  integrity  in  his  mind  that  he  was 
guiltless  of  having  felt  even  a  moment's  unwor- 
thy jealousy,  either  at  the  time  when  he  Avas  in 


her  presence,  or  afterward  when  he  had  with- 
drawn from  it.  Deeply  as  he  lamented  tiie  un- 
fortunate attachment  which  had  hindered  the 
progress  he  might  otherwise  have  made  in  her 
esteem  and  regard,  he  firmly  believed  that  it 
had  remained  unacknowledged  in  the  past,  and 
that  it  would  remain,  under  all  changes  of  cir- 
cumstances which  it  was  possible  to  contemplate, 
unacknowledged  in  the  future.  This  was  his 
absolute  conviction ;  and  the  strongest  proof  he 
could  give  of  it  was  the  assurance,  which  he  now 
oft'ered,  that  he  felt  no  curiosity  to  know  wheth- 
er the  attachment  was  of  recent  date  or  not,  or 
who  had  been  the  object  of  it.  His  implicit  con- 
fidence in  Miss  Fairlie  made  him  satisfied  with 
what  she  had  thought  fit  to  say  to  him,  and  he 
was  honestly  innocent  of  the  slightest  feeling 
of  anxiety  to  hear  more. 

He  waited,  after  saying  those  words,  and 
looked  at  me.  I  was  so  conscious  of  my  un- 
reasonable prejudice  against  him — so  conscious 
of  an  unworthy  suspicion  that  he  might  be  spec- 
ulating on  my  impulsively  answering  the  very 
questions  which  he  had  just  described  himself 
as  resolved  not  to  ask — that  I  evaded  all  refer- 
ence to  this  part  of  the  subject  with  something 
like  a  feeling  of  confusion  on  my  own  pait.  At 
the  same  time,  I  was  resolved  not  to  lose  even  the 
smallest  ojiportuuity  of  trying  to  plead  Laura's 
cause ;  and  I  told  him  boldly  that  I  regretted 
his  generosity  had  not  carried  him  one  step  far- 
ther, and  induced  him  to  withdraw  from  the  en- 
gagement altogether. 

Here,  again,  he  disarmed  me  by  not  attempt- 
ing to  defend  himself  He  would  merely  beg 
me  to  remember  the  difterence  there  was  be- 
tween his  allowing  Miss  Fairlie  to  give  him  up, 
which  was  a  matter  of  submission  only,  and  his 
forcing  himself  to  give  up  Miss  Fairlie,  which 
was,  in  other  words,  asking  him  to  be  the  suicide 
of  his  own  hopes.  Her  conduct  of  the  day  be- 
fore had  so  strengthened  the  unchangeable  love 
and  admiration  of  two  long  years,  that  all  active 
contention  against  those  feelings,  on  his  part, 
was  henceforth  entirely  out  of  his  power.  I 
must  think  him  weak,  selfish,  unfeeling  toward 
the  very  woman  whom  he  idolized,  and  he  must 
bow  to  my  opinion  as  resignedly  as  he  could ; 
only  putting  it  to  me,  at  the  same  time,  whether 
her  future  as  a  single  woman,  pining  under  an 
unhappily  placed  attachment  which  she  could 
never  acknowledge,  could  be  said  to  pi'omise  her 
u  much  brighter  prospect  than  her  future  as  the 
wife  of  a  man  who  worshiped  the  very  ground 
she  walked  on?  In  the  last  case  there  was  hope 
from  time,  however  slight  it  might  be — in  the 
first  case,  on  her  own  showing,  there  was  no 
hope  at  all. 

I  answered  him — more  because  my  tongue  is 
a  woman's,  and  must  answer,  than  because  I 
had  any  thing  convincing  to  say.  It  was  only 
too  plain  that  the  course  Laura  had  adopted  the 
day  before  liad  offered  him  the  advantage  if  he 
chose  to  take  it — and  that  he  had  chosen  to  take 
it.  I  felt  this  at  the  time,  and  I  feel  it  just  as 
strongly  now,  while  I  write  these  lines,  in  my 
own  room.  The  one  hope  left  is,  that  his  mo- 
tives really  spring,  as  he  says  they  do,  from  the 
irresistible  strength  of  his  attachment  to  Laura. 

Before  I  close  my  diary  for  to-night,  I  must 
record  that  I  wrote  to-day,  in  poor  Hartright's 
interests,  to  two  of  mr  mother's  old  friends  in 


74 


TPIE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


London — botli  men  of  influence  and  position. 
If  they  can  do  any  thing  for  him,  I  am  quite 
sure  they  will.  Except  Laura,  I  never  was  more 
anxious  about  any  one  than  I  am  now  about 
Walter.  All  that  has  happened  since  he  left 
us  has  only  increased  my  strong  regard  and 
sympathy  for  him.  I  hope  I  am  doing  right  in 
trying  to  help  him  to  employment  abroad — I 
hope,  most  earnestly  and  anxiously,  that  it  will 
end  well. 

10th. — SirPercival  had  an  interview  with  Mr. 
Fairlie,  and  I  was  sent  for  to  join  them. 

I  found  Mr.  Fairlie  greatly  relieved  at  the 
prospect  of  the  "family  worry"  (as  he  was 
pleased  to  describe  his  niece's  marriage)  being 
settled  at  last.  So  far  I  did  not  feel  called  on 
to  say  any  thing  to  him  about  my  own  opinion  ; 
but  when  he  proceeded,  in  his  most  aggrava- 
tingly  languid  manner,  to  suggest  that  the  time 
for  the  marriage  had  better  be  settled  next,  in 
accordance  with  Sir  Fercival's  wishes,  I  enjoyed 
the  satisfaction  of  assailing  Mr.  Fairlie's  nerves 
with  as  strong  a  protest  against  hurrying  Lau- 
ra's decision  as  I  could  put  into  words.  Sir 
Percival  immediately  assured  me  that  he  felt 
the  force  of  my  objection,  and  begged  me  to  be- 
lieve that  the  pro])Osal  had  not  been  made  in 
consequence  of  any  interference  on  his  part. 
Mr.  Fairlie  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  closed  his 
eyes,  said  we  both  of  us  did  honor  to  human  na- 
ture, and  then  repeated  his  suggestion,  as  coolly 
as  if  neither  Sir  Percival  nor  I  had  said  a  word 
in  opposition  to  it.  It  ended  in  my  flatly  de- 
clining to  mention  the  subject  to  Laura,  unless 
sjie  first  approached  it  of  her  own  accord.  I 
left  the  room  at  once  after  making  that  declara- 
tion. Sir  Percival  looked  seriously  embarrassed 
and  distressed.  Mr.  Fairlie  stretched  out  his 
lazy  legs  on  his  velvet  footstool,  and  said: 
"  Dear  Marian !  how  I  envy  you  your  robust 
nervous  system !     Don't  bang  the  door !" 

On  going  to  Laura's  room  I  found  that  she 
had  asked  for  me,  and  that  Mrs.  Vesey  had  in- 
formed her  that  I  was  with  Mr.  Fairlie.  She 
inquired  at  once  what  I  had  been  wanted  for; 
and  I  told  her  all  that  had  passed,  without  at- 
tempting to  conceal  the  vexation  and  annoyance 
that  I  really  felt.  Her  answer  surprised  and  dis- 
tressed me  inexpressibly;  it  was  the  very  last 
reply  that  I  should  have  expected  her  to  make. 

"My  uncle  is  right,"  she  said.  "I  have 
caused  trouble  and  anxiety  enough  to  you,  and 
to  all  about  nie.  Let  me  cause  no  more,  Ma- 
rian— let  Sir  Percival  decide." 

I  remonstrated  warmly ;  but  nothing  that  I 
couid  say  moved  her. 

"I  am  held  to  my  engagement,"  she  replied  ; 
"  I  have  broken  with  my  old  life.  The  evil  day 
will  not  come  the  less  surely  because  I  put  it 
off.  No,  Marian !  once  again,  my  uncle  is  right. 
I  have  caused  trouble  enough  and  anxiety 
enough,  and  I  will  cause  no  more," 

She  used  to  be  jjliability  itself;  but  she  was 
now  inflexibly  passive  in  her  resignation — I 
might  almost  say  in  her  desjiair.  Dearly  as  I 
love  her,  I  sliould  have  Itecn  less  pained  if  sjie 
had  been  violently  agitated ;  it  was  so  shock- 
ingly unlike  her  natural  character  to  see  her  as 
cold  and  insensible  as  I  saw  her  now. 

lltJt. — Sir  Percival  put  some  questions  to  me 


at  breakfast  about  Lauia,  which  left  me  no 
choice  but  to  tell  him  what  she  had  said. 

Wliile  we  were  talking  she  herself  came  down 
and  joined  us.  .She  was  just  as  unnaturally 
composed  in  Sir  Percival's  presence  as  she  had 
been  in  mine.  When  breakfast  was  over  he 
had  an  opportunity  of  saying  a  few  words  to 
her  privately,  in  a  recess  of  one  of  the  windows. 
They  were  not  more  than  two  or  three  minutes 
together ;  and,  on  their  separating,  she  left  the 
room  with  Mrs.  Vesey,  while  Sir  Percival  came 
to  me.  He  said  he  had  entreated  her  to  favor 
him  by  maintaining  her  privilege  of  fixing  the 
time  for  the  marriage  at  her  own  will  and 
pleasure.  In  reply,  she  had  merely  expressed 
her  acknowledgments,  and  had  desired  him  to 
mention  Avhat  his  wishes  were  to  Miss  Hal- 
combe. 

I  have  no  patience  to  write  more.  In  this 
instance,  as  in  every  other.  Sir  Percival  has 
carried  his  ])oint,  with  the  utmost  possible  cred- 
it to  himself,  in  spite  of  every  thing  that  I  can 
say  or  do.  His  wishes  are  now  what  they  were, 
of  course,  when  he  first  came  here  ;  and  Laura 
having  resigned  herself  to  the  one  inevitable 
sacrifice  of  the  marriage,  remains  as  coldly 
hopeless  and  enduring  as  ever.  In  parting  with 
the  little  occupations  and  relics  that  reminded 
her  of  Hartright,  she  seems  to  have  parted  with 
all  her  tenderness  and  all  her  impressibility. 
It  is  only  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  while  I 
write  these  lines,  and  Sir  Percival  has  left  us 
alread}',  in  the  hai^])y  hurry  of  a  bridegroom,  to 
prepare  for  the  bride's  reception  at  his  house  in 
Hampshire.  Unless  some  extraordinary  event 
happens  to  prevent  it,  they  will  be  married  ex- 
actly at  the  time  when  he  wished  to  be  married 
— before  the  end  of  the  year.  My  very  fingers 
burn  as  I  write  it ! 

12fh. — A  sleepless  night,  through  uneasiness 
about  Laura.  Toward  the  morning  I  came  to 
a  resolution  to  try  what  change  of  scene  would 
do  to  rouse  her.  She  can  not  surely  remain  in 
her  present  torpor  of  insensibility,  if  I  take  her 
away  from  Limmeridge,  and  surround  her  with 
the  ])leasant  faces  of  old  friends  ?  After  some 
consideration,  I  decided  on  M-riting  to  the  Ar- 
nolds, in  Yorkshire.  They  are  simple,  kind- 
hearted,  hospitable  people,  and  she  has  known 
them  from  her  childhood.  When  I  had  put  the 
letter  in  the  post-bag  I  told  her  Avhat  I  had 
done.  It  would  have  been  a  relief  to  me  if  she 
had  shown  the  spirit  to  resist  and  object.  But 
no — she  only  said,  "I  will  go  anywhere  with 
you,  Marian.  I  dare  say  you  are  right — I  dare 
say  the  change  will  do  me  good." 

lofli. — I  wrote  to  Mr.  Gilmore,  informing  him 
that  there  was  really  a  prospect  of  this  miserable 
marriage  taking  place,  and  also  mentioning  my 
idea  of  trying  what  change  of  scene  would  do 
for  Laura.  I  had  no  heart  to  go  into  jiarticu- 
lars.  Time  enough  for  them  when  we  get  near- 
er to  the  end  of  the  year. 

14//,. — Three  letters  for  me.  The  first,  from 
the  Arnolds,  full  of  delight  at  the  pros]iect  of 
seeing  Laura  and  me.  The  second,  from  one 
of  the  gentlemen  to  whom  I  wrote  on  Walter 
Ilartriglit's  behalf,  informing  me  that  he  has 
been  fortunate  enough  to  find  an  opportunity 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


75 


of  complying  with  my  request.  The  tliird,  from 
Walter  himself,  thanking  me,  poor  fellow,  in 
the  warmest  terms  for  giving  him  an  opportu- 
nity of  leaving  his  home,  his  country,  and  his 
friends.  A  private  expedition  to  make  excava- 
tions among  the  ruined  cities  of  Central  Amer- 
ica is,  it  seems,  about  to  sail  from  Liverpool. 
The  draughtsman  who  had  been  already  ap- 
pointed to  accompany  it  has  lost  heart,  and 
withdrawn  at  the  eleventh  hour;  and  Walter  is 
to  fill  his  place.  He  is  to  be  engaged  for  six 
months  certain,  from  the  time  of  the  landing 
in  Honduras,  and  for  a  year  afterward,  if  the 
excavations  are  successful,  and  if  the  funds 
hold  out.  His  letter  ends  with  a  promise  to 
write  me  a  farewell  line,  when  they  are  all  on 
board  ship,  and  when  the  pilot  leaves  them.  I 
can  only  hope  and  pray  earnestly  that  he  and  I 
are  both  acting  in  this  matter  for  the  best.  It 
seems  such  a  serious  step  for  him  to  take  that 
the  mei'e  contemplation  of  it  startles  me.  And 
yet,  in  his  unhapjsy  position,  how  can  I  expect 
him,  or  wish  him,  to  remain  at  home  ? 

loth. — The  can-iage  is  at  the  door.  Laura 
and  I  set  out  on  our  visit  to  the  Arnolds  to- 
day. 

POLESDEAN    LODGE,  YOEKSIIIKE. 

23c?. — A  week  in  these  new  scenes,  and 
among  these  kind-hearted  people,  has  done  her 
some  good,  though  not  so  much  as  I  had  hoped. 
I  have  resolved  to  prolong  our  stay  for  another 
week  at  least.  It  is  useless  to  go  back  to  Lim- 
meridge  till  there  is  au  absolute  necessity  for 
our  return. 

2ith. — Sad  news  by  this  morning's  post.  The 
expedition  to  Central  America  sailed  on  the 
twenty-first.  We  have  jiarted  witli  a  true  man ; 
we  have  lost  a  faithful  friend.  Walter  Hart- 
right  has  left  England. 

2oth. — Sad  news  j^esterday:  ominous  news 
to-day.  Sir  Percival  Glyde  has  written  to  Mr. 
Fairlie ;  and  Mr.  Fairlio  has  written  to  Laura 
and  me,  to  recall  us  to  Limmeridge  imme- 
diately. 

What  can  this  mean  ?  Has  the  day  for  the 
marriage  been  fixed  in  our  absence  ? 

27th.  —  My  forebodings  are  realized.  The 
marriage  is  fixed  for  the  twenty-third  of  De- 
cember. 

The  day  after  we  left  for  Polesdean  Lodge, 
Sir  Percival  wrote,  it  seems,  to  Mr.  Fairlie,  to 
say  that  the  necessary  repairs  and  alterations 
in  his  house  in  Hampshire  would  occupy  a 
much  longer  time  in  completion  than  he  had 
originally  anticipated.  The  proper  estimates 
were  to  be  submitted  to  him  as  soon  as  possi- 
ble ;  and  it  would  greatly  facilitate  his  enter- 
ing into  definite  arrangements  with  the  work- 
people if  he  could  be  informed  of  the  exact  pe- 
riod at  which  the  wedding  ceremony  might  be 
expected  to  take  place.  He  could  then  make 
all  his  calculations  in  reference  to  time,  be- 
sides writing  the  necessary  apologies  to  friends 
who  had  been  engaged  to  visit  him  that  win- 
ter, and  who  could  not,  of  course,  be  received 
when  the  house  was  in  the  hands  of  the  work- 
men. • 


To  this  letter  Mr.  Fairlie  had  replied  by  re- 
questing Sir  Percival  himself  to  suggest  a  day 
for  the  marriage,  subject  to  Miss  Fairlie's  ap- 
proval, which  her  guardian  willingly  undertook 
to  do  his  best  to  obtain.  Sir  Percival  wrote 
back  by  the  next  post,  and  proposed  (in  accord- 
ance with  his  own  views  and  wishes  from  the 
first)  the  latter  part  of  December — perhaps  the 
twenty-third  or  twenty-fourth,  or  any  other  day 
that  the  lady  and  her  guardian  might  prefer. 
The  lady  not  being  at  hand  to  speak  for  herself, 
her  guardian  had  decided,  in  her  absence,  on 
the  earliest  day  mentioned — the  twenty-third 
of  December — and  had  written  to  recall  us  to 
Limmeridge  in  consequence. 

After  explaining  these  particulars  Jo  me  at  a 
private  interview  yesterday,  Mr.  Fairlie  sug- 
gested, in  his  most  amiable  manner,  that  I 
should  open  the  necessary  negotiations  to-day. 
Feeling  that  resistance  was  useless,  unless  I 
could  first  obtain  Laura's  authority  to  make  it, 
I  consented  to  speak  to  her,  but  declared,  at 
the  same  time,  that  I  would  on  no  considera- 
tion undertake  to  gain  her  consent  to  Sir  Perci- 
val's  wishes.  Mi*.  Fairlie  complimented  me  on 
my  "excellent  conscience,"  much  as  he  would 
have  complimented  me,  if  we  had  been  out 
walking,  on  my  "  excellent  constitution,"  and 
seemed  ])erfectly  satisfied,  so  far,  with  having 
simjjly  shifted  one  more  family  responsibility 
from  his  own  shoulders  to  mine. 

This  morning  I  spoke  to  Laura  as  I  had 
promised.  The  composure — I  may  almost  say, 
the  insensibility — which  she  has  so  strangely 
and  so  resolutely  maintained  ever  since  Sir  Per- 
cival left  us,  was  not  proof  against  the  shock  of 
the  news  I  had  to  tell  her.  She  turned  pale, 
and  trembled  violently. 

"  Not  so  soon !"  she  pleaded.  "  Oh,  Marian, 
not  so  soon !" 

The  slightest  hint  she  could  give  was  enough 
for  me.  I  rose  to  leave  the  room,  and  fight  her 
battle  for  her  at  once  with  Mr.  Fairlie. 

Just  as  my  hand  was  on  the  door  she  caught 
fast  hold  of  my  dress,  and  stopped  me. 

"  Let  me  go!"  I  said.  "  i\Iy  tongue  burns  to 
tell  your  uncle  that  he  and  Sir  Percival  are  not 
to  have  it  all  their  own  way." 

She  sighed  bitterl}',  and  still  held  my  dress. 
"  No !"  she  said,  faintly.     ' '  Too  late,  Marian 
—too  late !" 

"  Not  a  minute  too  late,"  I  retorted.  "  The 
question  of  time  is  our  question — and  trust  me, 
Laura,  to  take  a  woman's  full  advantage  of  it." 
I  unclasped  her  hand  from  my  gown  while  I 
spoke ;  but  she  slipped  both  her  arms  round  my 
waist  at  the  same  moment,  and  held  me  more 
effectually  than  ever. 

"  It  will  only  involve  us  in  more  trouble  and 
more  confusion,"  she  said.  "  It  will  set  you 
and  my  uncle  at  variance,  and  bring  Sir  Perci- 
val here  again  with  fresh  causes  of  complaint — '" 
"  So  much  the  better !"  I  cried  out,  passion- 
ately. "  Who  cares  for  his  causes  of  complaint  ? 
Are  you  to  break  your  heart  to  set  his  mind  at 
ease?  No  man  under  heaven  deserves  these 
sacrifices  from  us  women.  Men  !  They  are  the 
enemies  of  our  innocence  and  our  peace— they 
drag  us  away  from  our  parents'  love  and  our  sis- 
ters' friendship — they  take  us  body  and  soul  to 
themselves,  and  fasten  our  helpless  lives  to  theirs 
as  they  chain  up  a  dog  to  his  kennel.    And  what 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


M'/WB 


'just  as  mt  haud  avas  on  the  dook  she  caught  fast  hold  of  my  dkess,  and  stopped 

ME." 


does  the  best  of  them  give  us  in  return  ?  Let 
me  go,  Laura — I'm  mad  when  I  think  of  it !" 

The  tears — miserable,  weak  women's  tears  of 
vexation  and  rage — started  to  my  eyes.  She 
smiled  sadly,  and  put  her  handkerchief  over  my 
face,  to  hide  for  me  the  betrayal  of  my  own 
weakness — the  weakness  of  all  others  which  she 
knew  that  I  most  despised. 

"Oh,  Marian!"  she  said.  "  Yom  crying! 
Think  what  you  would  say  to  me  if  the  places 
were  changed,  and  if  those  tears  were  mine.  All 
your  love  and  courage  and  devotion  will  not  al- 
ter what  must  happen,  sooner  or  later.  Let  my 
uncle  have  his  way.  Let  us  have  no  more  trou- 
bles and  heart-burnings  that  any  sacrifice  of 
mine  can  prevent.  Say  you  will  live  with  me, 
Marian,  when  I  am  married — and  say  no  more." 

But  I  did  say  more.  I  forced  back  the  con- 
temptible tears  that  were  no  relief  to  7iw,  and 
rhat  only  distressed  her  ;  and  reasoned  and 
j)leaded  as  calmly  as  I  could.  It  was  of  no 
avail.  She  made  me  twice  repeat  the  ])romise 
to  live  with  her  when  she  was  married,  and  then 
suddenly  asked  a  question  which  turned  my  sor- 
row and  my  sympathy  for  her  into  a  new  direc- 
tion. 


"  While  we  were  at  Polesdean,"  she  said, 
"  you  had  a  letter,  Marian — " 

Her  altered  tone  ;  the  abrupt  manner  in  which 
she  looked  away  from  me,  and  hid  her  face  on 
my  shoulder  ;  the  hesitation  which  silenced  her 
before  she  had  completed  her  question,  all  told 
me  but  too  jilainly  to  whom  the  half-expressed 
inquiry  pointed. 

"  I  thought,  Laura,  that  you  and  I  were  never 
to  refer  to  him  again,"  I  said,  gently. 

"  You  had  a  letter  from  him?"  she  persisted. 

"  Yes,"  I  re])licd,  "  if  you  must  know  it." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  Avrite  to  him  again  ?" 

I  hesitated.  I  had  been  afraid  to  tell  her  of 
his  absence  from  England,  or  of  the  manner  in 
which  my  exertions  to  serve  his  new  hopes  and 
projects  had  connected  me  with  his  departure. 
What  answer  could  I  make  ?  lie  was  gone 
where  no  letters  could  iollow  witli  the  chance 
of  reaching  him  for  months,  iicrhnjjs  for  years, 
to  come. 

"  Su]ipose  I  do  mean  to  write  to  him  again," 
I  said,  at  last.     "  What  then,  Laura  ?" 

Her    cheek    grew    burning    hot   against    mv 
neck,    and  her  arms    trembled   and 
round  me. 


lightened 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


77 


"Don't  tell  liim  about  the.  iircnfij-tltird,"  she 
whispered.  "  Promise,  Marian — jiray  promise 
3-ou  will  not  even  mention  my  name  to  him 
when  you  write  next." 

I  gave  the  promise — no  words  can  say  how 
sorrowfully  I  gave  it.  She  instantly  took  her 
arm  from  my  waist,  walked  away  to  the  win- 
dow, and  stood  looking  out,  with  her  back  to 
me.  After  a  moment  she  spoke  once  more,  but 
without  turning  round,  without  allowing  me  to 
catch  the  smallest  glimpse  of  her  face. 

"Are  you  going  to  my  uncle's  room?"  she 
asked.  "  Will  you  say  that  I  consent  to  what- 
ever arrangement  he  may  think  best  ?  Never 
mind  leaving  me,  Marian.  I  shall  be  better 
alone  for  a  little  while." 

I  went  out.  If,  as  soon  as  I  got  into  the  pas- 
sage, I  could  have  transported  Mr.  Fairlie  and 
Sir  Percival  Glyde  to  the  uttermost  ends  of  the 
earth,  by  lifting  one  of  my  fingers,  that  finger 
would  have  been  raised  without  an  instant's 
hesitation.  For  once,  my  unhappy  temper  now 
stood  my  friend.  I  should  have  broken  down 
altogether  and  burst  into  a  violent  fit  of  crying, 
if  my  tears  had  not  been  all  burned  up  in  the  j 
heat  of  my  anger.  As  it  was,  I  dashed  into  j 
Mr.  Fairlie's  room — called  to  him  as  harshly  as 
possible,  "Laura  consents  to  the  twenty-third" 
— and  dashed  out  again  without  waiting  for  a 
word  of  answer.  I  banged  the  door  after  me, 
and  I  hope  I  shattered  Mr.  Fairlie's  nervous 
system  for  the  rest  of  the  day. 

28^^. — This  morning  I  read  poor  Hartright's 
farewell  letter  over  again  ;  a  doubt  having  cross- 
ed my  mind  since  yesterday  whether  I  am  act- 
ing wisely  in  concealing  the  fact  of  his  departure 
from  Laura. 

On  reflection,  I  still  think  I  am  right.  The 
allusions  in  his  letter  to  the  preparations  made 
for  the  expedition  to  Central  America  all  show 
that  the  leaders  of  it  know  it  to  be  dangerous. 
If  the  discovery  of  this  makes  me  uneasy,  what 
would  it  make  her?  It  is  bad  enough  to  feel 
that  his  departure  has  deprived  us  of  the  friend 
of  all  others  to  whose  devotion  we  could  trust 
in  the  hour  of  need,  if  ever  that  hour  comes  and 
finds  us  helpless.  But  it  is  far  worse  to  know 
that  he  has  gone  from  us  to  face  the  perils  of  a 
bad  climate,  a  wild  country,  and  a  disturbed 
population.  Surely  it  would  be  a  cruel  candor  to 
tell  Laura  this,  without  a  pressing  and  a  posi- 
tive necessity  for  it? 

I  almost  doubt  whether  I  ought  not  to  go  a 
step  farther,  and  burn  the  letter  at  once,  for 
fear  of  its  one  day  falling  into  wrong  hands. 
It  not  only  refers  to  Laura  in  terms  which 
ought  to  remain  a  secret  forever  between  the 
writer  and  me,  but  it  reiterates  his  suspicion — 
so  obstinate,  so  unaccountable,  and  so  alarming 
— that  he  has  been  secretly  watched  since  he 
left  Limmeridge.  He  declares  that  he  saw  the 
faces  of  the  two  sti-ange  men  who  followed  him 
about  the  streets  of  London  watcliing  him 
among  the  crowd  which  gathered  at  Liverpool 
to  see  the  expedition  embark ;  and  he  positively 
asserts  that  he  heard  the  name  of  Anne  Cath- 
crick  pronounced  behind  him  as  he  got  into  the 
boat.  His  own  words  are,  "These  events  have 
a  meaning — these  events  must  lead  to  a  result. 
The  mystery  of  Anne  Catherick  is  7iot  cleared 
up  yet.     She  may  never  cross  my  path  again; 


but  if  ever  she  crosses  yours  make  better  use  of 
the  opportunity,  JMiss  Halcombe,  than  I  made 
of  it.  I  speak  on  strong  conviction  ;  I  entreat 
you  to  remember  what  I  say."  These  are  his 
own  expressions.  There  is  no  danger  of  my 
forgetting  them — my  memory  is  only  too  ready 
to  dwell  on  any  words  of  Hartright's  that  refer 
to  Anne  Catherick.  But  there  is  danger  in  my 
keeping  the  letter.  The  merest  accident  might 
place  it  at  the  mercy  of  strangers.  I  may  fall 
ill ;  I  may  die ;  better  to  burn  it  at  once,  and 
have  one  anxiety  the  less  by  knowing  that  it  has 
been  destroyed. 

It  is  burned !  The  ashes  of  his  farewell  letter 
— the  last  he  may  ever  write  to  me — lie  in  a  few 
black  fragments  on  the  hearth.  Is  this  the  sad 
end  to  all  that  sad  story?  Oh,  not  the  eud — 
surely,  surely  not  the  end  already ! 

2dth. — The  preparations  for  the  marriage 
have  begun.  The  dress-maker  has  come  to  re- 
ceive her  orders.  Laura  is  perfectly  impassive. 
])erfectly  careless  about  the  question  of  all  others 
in  which  a  woman's  personal  interests  are  most 
closely  bound  up.  She  has  left  it  all  to  the 
dress-maker  and  to  me.  If  poor  Hartright  had 
been  the  baronet,  and  tlie  husband  of  her  father's 
choice,  how  dift'erently  she  would  have  behaved ! 
How  anxious  and  capricious  she  would  have 
been ;  and  what  a  hard  task  the  best  of  dress- 
makers would  have  found  it  to  please  her ! 

30^A. — We  hear  every  day  from  Sir  Percival. 
The  last  news  is  that  the  alterations  in  his 
house  will  occupy  from  four  to  six  months  be- 
fore they  can  be  properly  completed.  If  paint- 
ers, paper-hangers,  and  upholsterers  could  make 
happiness  as  well  as  splendor,  I  should  be  inter- 
ested about  their  proceedings  in  Laura's  future 
home.  As  it  is,  the  only  part  of  Sir  Percival'-* 
last  letter  which  does  not  leave  me  as  it  found 
me — perfectly  indiiferent  to  all  his  plans  and 
projects — is  the  part  which  refers  to  the  wed- 
ding-tour. He  proposes,  as  Laura  is  delicate, 
and  as  the  winter  threatens  to  be  unusually  se- 
vere, to  take  her  to  Rome,  and  to  remain  in 
Italy  until  the  early  part  of  next  summer.  If 
this  plan  should  not  be  approved,  he  is  equally 
ready,  although  he  has  no  establishment  of  his 
own  in  town,  to  spend  the  season  in  London,  in 
the  most  suitable  furnished  house  that  can  be 
obtained  for  the  purpose. 

Putting  myself  and  my  own  feelings  entirely 
out  of  the  question  (which  it  is  my  duty  to  do. 
and  which  I  liave  done),  I,  for  one,  have  no  doubr 
of  the  propriety  of  adopting  the  first  of  these 
proposals.  In  either  case,  a  separation  between 
Laura  and  me  is  inevitable.  It  will  be  a  longer 
separation,  in  the  event  of  their  going  abroad, 
than  it  would  be  in  the  event  of  their  remaining 
in  London ;  but  we  must  set  against  this  disad- 
vantage the  benefit  to  Laura,  on  the  other  side, 
of  jjassing  the  winter  in  a  mild  climate ;  and, 
more  than  that,  the  immense  assistance  in  rais- 
ing her  spirits,  and  reconciling  her  to  her  new 
existence,  which  the  mere  wonder  and  excite- 
ment of  traveling  for  the  first  time  in  her  life 
in  the  most  interesting  country  in  the  world 
must  surely  afford.  She  is  not  of  a  disposition 
to  find  resources  in  the  conventional  gayeties 
and  excitements  of  London.  They  would  only 
make  the   first  oppression  of  this  lamentable 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE, 


marriafje  fall  the  heavier  on  her.  I  dread  the 
beginning  of  her  new  life  more  than  words  can 
tell ;  but  I  see  some  hope  for  her  if  she  travels 
— none  ifshe  remains  at  home. 

It  is  strange  to  look  back  at  this  latest  entry 
in  my  journal,  and  to  find  that  I  am  writing  of 
the  marriage  and  the  parting  with  Laura  as  peo- 
ple write  of  a  settled  thing.  It  seems  so  cold  and 
so  unfeeling  to  be  looking  at  the  future  already 
in  this  cruelly  composed  way.  But  what  other 
way  is  possible,  now  that  the  time  is  drawing  so 
near?  Before  another  month  is  over  our  heads 
she  M'ill  be  his  Laura  instead  of  mine!  His 
Laura!  I  am  as  little  able  to  realize  the  idea 
which  those  two  words  convey — my  mind  feels 
almost  as  dulled  and  stunned  by  it  as  if  writing 
of  her  marriage  were  like  writing  of  her  death. 

December  Ist. — A  sad,  sad  day;  a  day  that  I 
have  no  heart  to  describe  at  any  length.  After 
weakly  putting  it  off  last  night,  I  was  obliged  to 
speak  to  her  this  morning  of  Sir  Percival's  pro- 
posal about  the  wedding-tour. 

In  the  full  conviction  that  I  should  be  with 
her  wherever  she  went,  tlie  poor  child — for  a 
child  she  is  still  in  many  things — was  almost 
happy  at  the  prospect  of  seeing  the  wonders  of 
Florence  and  Rome  and  Naples.  It  nearly 
broke  my  heart  to  dispel  her  delusion,  and  to 
bring  her  face  to  face  with  the  hard  truth.  I 
was  obliged  to  tell  her  that  no  man  tolerates  a 
rival — not  even  a  woman-rival — in  his  wife's 
affections,  when  he  first  marries,  Mhatever  he 
may  do  afterward.  I  was  obliged  to  warn  her 
that  my  chance  of  living  with  her  permanently, 
under  her  own  roof,  depended  entirely  on  my 
not  arousing  Sir  Percival's  jealousy  and  distrust 
by  standing  between  them  at  the  beginning  of 
their  marriage  in  the  position  of  the  chosen  de- 
positaiy  of  his  wife's  closest  secrets.  Drop  by 
drop  I  poured  the  profaning  bitterness  of  this 
M'orld's  wisdom  into  that  pure  heart  and  that 
innocent  mind,  while  every  higher  and  better 
feeling  within  me  recoiled  from  my  miserable 
task.  It  is  over  now.  She  has  learned  her 
hard,  her  inevitable  lesson.  The  simple  illu- 
sions of  her  girlhood  are  gone,  and  my  hand  has 
stripped  them  off.  Better  mine  than  his — that 
is  all  my  consolation — better  mine  than  his  ! 

So  the  first  proposal  is  the  proposal  accepted. 
They  are  to  go  to  Italy;  and  I  am  to  arrange, 
with  Sir  Percival's  permission,  for  meeting  them 
and  staying  with  them  when  they  return  to  En- 
gland. In  other  words,  I  am  to  ask  a  personal 
iavor,  for  the  first  time  in  my  life,  and  to  ask  it 
of  the  man  of  all  others  to  whom  I  least  desire 
to  owe  a  serious  obligation  of  any  kind.  Well ! 
I  think  I  could  do  even  more  than  that  for 
Laura's  sake. 

2d. — On  looking  back,  I  find  myself  always 
referring  to  Sir  Tercival  in  disparaging  terms. 
In  the  turn  aftairs  have  now  taken  I  must  and 
will  root  out  my  prejudice  against  him.  I  can 
not  think  how  it  first  got  into  my  mind.  It  cer- 
tainly never  existed  in  former  times. 

Is  it  Laura's  reluctance  to  become  his  wife 
that  has  set  me  against  him  ?  Have  Hartright's 
])erfectly  intelligible  prejudices  infected  me  with- 
out my  suspecting  their  influence?  Docs  that 
letter  of  Anne  Catherick's  still  leave  a  lurking 
distrust  in  my  mind,  in  spite  of  Sir  Percival's 


explanation,  and  of  the  proof  in  my  possession 
of  the  truth  of  it?  I  can  not  account  for  the 
state  of  my  own  feelings :  the  one  thing  I  am 
certain  of  is,  that  it  is  my  duty — doubly  my  duty 
now — not  to  wrong  Sir  Percival  by  unjustly  dis- 
trusting him.  If  it  has  got  to  be  a  habit  with 
me  always  to  write  of  him  in  the  same  unfavor- 
able manner,  I  must  and  will  break  myself  of 
this  unworthy  tendency,  even  though  the  effort 
should  force  me  to  close  the  pages  of  my  journal 
till  the  marriage  is  over !  I  am  seriously  dissat- 
isfied with  myself — I  will  write  no  more  to-day. 
*  *  *  *  *  *  " 

IGth. — A  whole  fortnight  has  passed,  and  I 
have  not  once  opened  these  pages.  I  have  been 
long  enough  away  from  my  journal  to  come  back 
to  it  with  a  healthier  and  iDetter  mind,  I  hope, 
so  far  as  Sir  Percival  is  concerned. 

There  is  not  much  to  record  of  the  past  two 
weeks.  The  dresses  are  almost  all  finished,  and 
the  new  traveling-trunks  have  been  sent  here 
from  London.  Poor  dear  Laura  hardly  leaves 
me  for  a  moment  all  day;  and  last  night,  -when 
neither  of  us  could  sleep,  she  came  and  crept 
into  my  bed  to  talk  to  me  there.  "I  shall  lose 
3'ou  so  soon,  Marian,"  she  said;  "I  must  make 
the  most  of  you  while  I  can." 

They  are  to  be  married  at  Limmeridge  Church, 
and,  thank  Heaven!  not  one  of  the  neighbors  is 
to  be  invited  to  the  ceremony.  The  only  visit- 
or Avill  be  our  old  friend,  Mr.  Arnold,  who  is  to 
come  from  I'olesdean  to  give  Laura  away — her 
uncle  being  far  too  delicate  to  trust  himself  out- 
side the  door  in  such  inclement  weather  as  we 
now  have.  If  I  were  not  detennined,  from  this 
day  forth,  to  see  nothing  but  the  bright  side  of 
our  prospects,  the  melancholy  absence  of  any 
male  relative  of  Laura's,  at  the  most  important 
moment  of  her  life,  would  make  me  very  gloomy 
and  very  distrustful  of  the  future.  But  I  have 
done  with  gloom  and  distrust — that  is  to  say,  I 
have  done  with  writing  about  either  the  one  or 
the  other  in  this  journal. 

Sir  Percival  is  to  arrive  to-morrow.  He  of- 
fered, in  case  we  wished  to  treat  him  on  terms 
of  rigid  etiquette,  to  write  and  ask  our  clergy- 
man to  grant  him  the  hospitality  of  the  rectory 
during  the  short  period  of  his  sojourn  at  Lim- 
meridge before  the  marriage.  Under  the  cir- 
cumstances, neither  Mr.  Fairlie  nor  I  thought  it 
at  all  necessary  for  us  to  trouble  ourselves  about 
attending  to  trifling  forms  and  ceremonies.  In 
our  wild  moorland  country,  and  in  this  great 
lonely  house,  we  may  well  claim  to  be  beyond 
the  reach  of  the  trivial  conventionalities  which 
hamper  peo])le  in  other  places.  I  wrote  to  Sir 
Percival  to  thank  him  for  his  polite  offer,  and 
to  beg  that  he  would  occupy  his  old  rooms,  just 
as  usual,  at  Limmeridge  House. 

1 7t/i. — He  arrived  to-day,  looking,  as  I  thought, 
a  little  worn  and  anxious,  but  still  talking  and 
laugliing  like  a  man  in  the  best  ])ossiblc  spirits. 
He  brouglit  with  him  some  really  beautiful  pres- 
ents, in  jewelry,  which  Laura  received  with  her 
best  grace,  and,  outwardly  at  least,  M-ith  perfect 
self-possession.  The  only  sign  I  can  detect  of 
tlie  struggle  it  must  cost  her  to  juxscrvc  ajipcar- 
ances  at  this  trying  time,  expresses  itself  in  a 
sudden  unwillingness,  on  her  ]iart,  ever  to  be 
left  alone.  Instead  of  retreating  to  her  own 
room,  as  usual,  she  seems  to  dread  going  there. 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


When  I  went  up  stairs  to-day,  after  lunch,  to 
put  on  my  bonnet  ftir  a  walk,  she  volunteered 
to  join  me ;  and  again,  before  dinner,  she  threw 
the  door  open  between  our  two  rooms,  so  that 
we  might  talk  to  each  other  while  we  were  dress- 
ing. "  Keep  me  always  doing  something,"  she 
said;  "keep  me  always  in  company  with  some- 
body. Don't  let  me  think — that  is  all  I  ask 
now,  Marian — don't  let  me  think." 

This  sad  change  in  her  only  increases  her 
attractions  for  Sir  Tercival.  He  interprets  it,  I 
can  see,  to  his  own  advantage.  There  is  a 
feverish  flush  in  her  cheeks,  a  feverish  bright- 
ness in  her  eyes,  which  he  welcomes  as  the  re- 
turn of  her  beauty  and  the  recovery  of  her  spirits. 
She  talked  to-day  at  dinner  with  a  gayety  and 
carelessness  so  false,  so  shockingly  out  of  her 
character,  that  I  secretly  longed  to  silence  her 
and  take  her  away.  Sir  Percival's  delight  and 
surprise  appeared  to  be  bej-ond  all  expression. 
The  anxiety  which  I  had  noticed  on  his  face 
when  he  arrived  totally  disappeared  from  it ; 
and  he  looked,  even  to  my  eyes,  a  good  ten 
years  younger  than  he  really  is. 

There  can  be  no  doubt — though  some  strange 
perversity  prevents  me  from  seeing  it  myself — 
there  can  be  no  doubt  that  Laura's  future  hus- 
band is  a  very  handsome  man.  Regular  features 
form  a  personal  advantage  to  begin  with — and 
he  has  them.  Bright  brown  eyes,  either  in  man 
or  woman,  are  a  great  attraction — and  he  has 
them.  Even  baldness,  when  it  is  only  baldness 
over  the  forehead  (as  in  his  case),  is  rather  be- 
coming than  not  in  a  man,  for  it  heightens  the 
head  and  adds  to  the  intelligence  of  the  face. 
Grace  and  ease  of  movement ;  perfect  good 
breeding;  ready,  pliant,  conversational  powers 
— all  these  are  unquestionable  merits,  and  all 
these  he  certainly  possesses.  Surely  Blr.  Gil- 
more,  ignorant  as  he  is  of  Laura's  secret,  was 
not  to  blame  for  feeling  surprised  that  she  should 
repent  of  her  marriage  engagement  ?  Any  one 
else  in  his  place  would  have  shared  our  good 
old  friend's  opinion.  If  I  were  asked  at  this 
moment  to  say  plainly  what  defects  I  have  dis- 
covered in  Sir  Fercival,  I  could  only  point  out 
two.  One,  his  incessant  restlessness  and  exci- 
tability— which  may  be  caused,  naturally  enough, 
by  unusual  energy  of  character.  The  other,  his 
short,  sharp,  contemptuous  manner  of  speaking 
to  the  servants — which  may  be  only  a  bad  hab-  ' 
it,  after  all.  No :  I  can  not  dispute  it,  and  I 
will  not  dispute  it — Sir  Fercival  is  a  very  hand- 
some and  a  very  agreeable  man.  There !  I  have 
written  it  down  at  last,  and  I  am  glad  it's  over. 

18tk. — Feeling  wearyand  depressed  this  morn- 
ing, I  left  Laura  with  Mrs.  Vesey,  and  went  out 
alone  for  one  of  my  brisk  mid-day  walks,  which 
I  have  discontinued  too  much  of  late.  I  took 
the  dry,  airy  road  over  the  moor  that  leads  to 
Todd's  Corner.  After  having  been  out  half  an- 
hour,  I  was  excessively  surprised  to  see  Sir  Fer- 
cival approaching  me  from  the  direction  of  the 
farm.  He  was  walking  rapidly,  swinging  his 
stick ;  his  head  erect  as  usual,  and  his  shooting- 
jacket  flying  open  in  the  wind.  When  we  met 
he  did  not  wait  for  me  to  ask  any  questions — he 
told  me  at  once  that  he  had  been  to  the  farm 
to  inquire  if  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Todd  had  received 
any  tidings,  since  his  last  visit  to  Limmeridge, 
of  Anne  Catherick. 


"You  found,  of  course,  that  they  had  heard 
nothing?"  I  said. 

"Nothing  whatever,"  he  replied.  "I  begin 
to  be  seriously  afraid  that  we  have  lost  her.  Do 
j'OU  happen  to  know,"  he  continued,  looking  me 
in  the  face  very  attentively,  "  if  the  artist — Mr. 
Hartright — is  in  a  position  to  give  us  any  fur- 
ther information  ?" 

"  He  has  neither  heard  of  her  nor  seen  her, 
since  he  left  Cumberland,"  I  answered. 

"  Very  sad,"  said  Sir  Fercival,  speaking  like 
a  man  who  was  disappointed,  and  yet,  oddly 
enough,  looking,  at  the  same  time,  like  a  man 
who  was  relieved.  "  It  is  impossible  to  say  what 
misfortunes  may  not  have  happened  to  the  mis- 
erable creature.  I  am  inexpressibly  annoyed 
at  the  failure  of  all  my  eftbrts  to  restore  her  to 
the  care  and  protection  which  she  so  urgently 
needs." 

This  time  he  really  looked  annoyed.  I  said 
a  few  sympathizing  words,  and  we  then  talked 
of  other  sulyects  on  our  way  back  to  the  liousc. 
Surely  my  chance  meeting  with  him  on  the 
moor  has  disclosed  another  favorable  trait  in  his 
character?  Surely  it  was  singularly  considerate 
and  unselfish  of  him  to  think  of  Anne  Catherick 
on  the  eve  of  his  marriage,  and  to  go  all  the 
way  to  Todd's  Corner  to  make  inquiries  about 
her,  when  he  might  have  passed  the  time  so 
much  more  agreeably  in  Laura's  society  ? 
Considering  that  he  can  only  have  acted  from 
motives  of  pure  charity,  his  conduct,  tinder  the 
circumstances,  shows  unusual  good  feeling,  and 
deserves  extraordinary  praise.  Well  !  I  give 
him  extraordinary  praise — and  there's  an  end 
of  it. 

19th. — More  discoveries  in  the  inexhaustible 
mine  of  Sir  Fercival's  virtues. 

To-day  I  approached  the  subject  of  my  pro- 
posed sojourn  under  his  wife's  roof  when  he 
brings  her  back  to  England.  I  had  hardly 
dropped  my  flrst  hint  in  this  direction  before 
he  caught  me  warmly  by  the  hand,  and  said  I 
had  made  the  very  ofter  to  him  which  he  had 
been  on  his  side  most  anxious  to  make  to  me. 
I  was  the  companion  of  all  others  whom  he 
most  sincerely  longed  to  secure  for  his  wife ; 
and  he  begged  me  to  believe  that  I  had  con- 
ferred a  lasting  favor  on  him  by  making  the 
proposal  to  live  with  Laura  after  her  mar- 
riage exactly  as  I  had  always  lived  with  her 
before  it. 

When  I  had  thanked  him,  in  her  name  and 
in  mine,  for  his  considerate  kindness  to  both 
of  us,  we  passed  next  to  the  subject  of  his  wed- 
ding tour,  and  began  to  talk  of  the  English  so- 
ciety in  Rome  to  which  Laura  was  to  be  intro- 
duced. He  ran  over  the  names  of  several 
friends  whom  he  expected  to  meet  abroad  this 
winter.  They  were  all  English,  as  well  as  I 
can  remember,  with  one  exception.  The  one 
exception  was  Count  Fosco. 

The  mention  of  the  Count's  name,  and  the 
discovery  that  he  and  his  wife  are  likely  to 
meet  the  bride  and  bridegroom  on  the  Conti- 
nent, puts  Laura's  marriage,  for  the  first  time, 
in  a  distinctly  favorable  light.  It  is  likely  to 
be  the  means  of  healing  a  family  feud.  Hith- 
erto Madame  Fosco  has  chosen  to  forget  her 
obligations  as  Laura's  aunt  out  of  sheer  spite 
against  the  late  Mr.  Fairlie  for  his  conduct  in 


80 


THE  "WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


the  affair  of  the  legacy.  Now,  however,  she 
can  persist  in  this  course  of  conduct  no  longer. 
Sir  Percival  and  Count  Fosco  are  old  and  fast 
friends,  and  their  wives  will  have  no  choice  but 
to  meet  on  civil  terms.  Madame  Fosco,  in  her 
maiden  days,  was  one  of  the  most  impertinent 
women  I  ever  met  with — capricious,  exacting, 
and  vain  to  the  last  degree  of  absurdity.  If 
her  husband  has  succeeded  in  bringing  her  to 
her  senses,  he  deserves  the  gratitude  of  every 
member  of  the  family — and  he  may  have  mine 
to  begin  with. 

I  am  becoming  anxious  to  know  the  Count. 
He  is  tlie  most  intimate  friend  of  Laura's  hus- 
band, and  in  that  capacity  he  excites  my  stron- 
gest interest.  Neither  Laura  nor  I  have  ever 
seen  him.  All  I  know  of  him  is  that  his  acci- 
dental presence,  years  ago,  on  the  steps  of  the 
Trinita  del  Monte'  at  Kome,  assisted  Sir  Per- 
cival's  escape  from  robbery  and  assassination, 
at  the  critical  moment  when  he  was  wounded 
in  the  hand,  and  might  the  next  instant  have 
been  wounded  in  the  heart.  I  remember  also 
that,  at  the  time  of  the  late  Mr.  Fairlie's  ab- 
surd objections  to  his  sister's  marriage,  the 
Count  wrote  him  a  very  temperate  and  sensi- 
ble letter  on  the  subject,  which,  I  am  ashamed 
to  say,  remained  unanswered.  This  is  all  I 
know  of  Sir  Percival's  friend.  I  wonder  if  he 
will  ever  come  to  England  ?  I  wonder  if  I 
shall  like  him  ? 

My  pen  is  running  away  into  mere  specula- 
tion. Let  me  return  to  sober  matter  of  fact. 
It  is  certain  that  Sir  Percival's  reception  of  my 
venturesome  proposal  to  live  with  liis  wife  was 
more  than  kind — it  was  almost  affectionate.  I 
am  sure  Laura's  husband  will  have  no  reason 
to  complain  of  me  if  I  can  only  go  on  as  I 
have  begun.  I  have  already  declared  him  to 
be  handsome,  agreeable,  full  of  good  feeling 
toward  the  unfortunate,  and  full  of  affectionate 
kindness  toward  me.  Really  I  hardly  know 
myself  again  in  my  new  character  of  Sir  Per- 
cival's warmest  friend. 

20//*. — I  hate  Sir  Percival !  I  flatly  deny  his 
good  looks ;  I  consider  him  to  be  eminently 
disagreeable,  and  totally  wanting  in  kindness 
and  good  feeling.  Last  night  the  cards  for  the 
married  couple  were  sent  home.  Laura  open- 
ed the  packet,  and  saw  her  future  name  in 
print  for  the  first  time.  Sir  Percival  looked 
over  her  shoulder  familiarly  at  the  new  card 
which  had  already  transformed  Miss  Fairlic 
into  Lady  Glyde — smiled  with  the  most  odious 
self-complacency — and  whispered  sometliing  in 
her  ear.  I  don't  know  what  it  was — Laura  has 
refused  to  tell  me — but  I  saw  her  face  turn  to 
such  a  deadly  whiteness  that  I  thought  she 
would  have  fainted.  He  took  no  notice  of  the 
change :  he  seemed  to  be  barbarously  uncon- 
scious that  he  had  said  any  thing  to  pain  her. 
All  my  old  feelings  of  hostility  toward  him  re- 
vived on  the  instant ;  and  all  the  hours  that 
have  passed  since  have  done  nothing  to  dissipate 
them.  I  am  more  unreasonable  and  more  un- 
just than  ever.  In  three  words — how  glibly  my 
pen  writes  them! — in  three  words,  I  hate  him. 

21st. — Have  the  anxieties  of  this  anxious 
time  shaken  me  a  little  at  last?  I  have  been 
writing,  for  the  last  few  days,  in  a  tone  of  lev- 


ity which,  Heaven  knows,  is  far  enough  from 
my  heart,  and  which  it  has  rather  shocked  mo 
to  discover  on  looking  back  at  the  entries  in 
my  journal. 

Perhaps  I  may  have  caught  the  feverish  ex- 
citement of  Laura's  spirits  for  the  last  week. 
If  so,  the  fit  has  already  passed  away  from  me, 
and  has  left  me  in  a  very  strange  state  of  mind. 
A  persistent  idea  has  been  forcing  itself  on  my 
attention,  ever  since  last  night,  that  something 
will  yet  happen  to  prevent  the  marriage.  What 
has  produced  this  singular  fancy?  Is  it  the  in- 
direct result  of  my  apprehensions  for  Laura's 
future?  Or  has  it  been  unconsciously  suggest- 
ed to  me  by  the  increasing  restlessness  and 
agitation  which  I  have  certainly  observed  in 
Sir  Percival's  manner  as  the  wedding  day  draws 
nearer  and  nearer?  Impossible  to  say.  I  know 
that  I  have  the  idea — surely  the  wildest  idea, 
under  the  circumstances,  that  ever  entered  a 
woman's  head — but,  try  as  I  may,  I  can  not 
trace  it  back  to  its  source. 

22d. — Such  a  day  of  confusion  and  wretch- 
edness as  I  hope  never  to  see  again. 

Kind  Mrs.  Vesey,  whom  we  have  all  too 
much  overlooked  and  forgotten  of  late,  inno- 
cently caused  us  a  sad  morning  to  begin  with. 
She  has  been  for  months  past  secretly  making 
a  warm  Shetland  shawl  for  her  dear  pupil — a 
most  beautiful  and  surprising  piece  of  work  to 
be  done  by  a  woman  at  her  age  and  with  her 
habits.  The  gift  was  presented  this  morning ; 
and  poor  warm-hearted  Laura  completely  broke 
down  when  the  shawl  was  put  proudly  on  her 
shoulders  by  the  loving  old  friend  and  guardian 
of  her  motherless  childhood.  I  was  hardly  al- 
lowed time  to  quiet  them  both,  or  even  to  dry 
my  own  eyes,  when  I  was  sent  for  by  Mr.  Fair- 
lie,  to  be  favored  by  a  long  recital  of  his  ar- 
rangements for  the  preservation  of  his  own 
tranquillity  on  the  wedding-day. 

"  Dear  Laura"  was  to  receive  his  present — a 
shabby  ring,  with  her  affectionate  uncle's  hair 
for  an  ornament,  instead  of  a  precious  stone, 
and  with  a  heartless  French  inscription,  inside, 
about  congenial  sentiments  and  eternal  friend- 
ship— "dear  Laura"  was  to  receive  this  tender 
tribute  from  my  hands  immediately,  so  that  she 
might  have  jdenty  of  time  to  recover  from  the 
agitation  produced  by  the  gift  before  she  ap- 
peared in  Mr.  Fairlie's  presence.  "Dear  Lau- 
ra" was  to  ]>ay  him  a  little  visit  that  evening, 
and  to  he  kind  enough  not  to  make  a  scene. 
"Dear  Laura"  was  to  pay  him  another  little 
visit  in  her  wedding  dress  the  next  morning, 
and  to  be  kind  enough,  again,  not  to  make  a 
scene.  "Dear  Laura"  Avas  to  look  in  once 
more,  for  the  third  time,  before  going  away, 
but  without  harrowing  his  feelings  by  saying 
irhen  she  was  going  away,  and  without  tears — 
"in  the  name  of  pity,  in  the  name  of  every  thing, 
dear  Marian,  that  is  most  affectionate  and  most 
domestic  and  most  delightfully  and  charmingly 
self-composed,  vitliont.  tears  T''  I  was  so  exas- 
perated by  this  miserable  selfish  tritling  at  such 
a  time,  that  I  should  certainly  have  shocked 
Mr.  Fairlie  by  some  of  the  hardest  and  rudest 
truths  he  has  ever  heard  in  his  life,  if  the  arriv- 
al of  ]\Ir.  Arnold  from  Polcsdean  had  not  called 
me  away  at  the  right  moment  to  new  duties 
down  stairs. 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


81 


The  rest  of  the  day  is  indescribable.  I  be- 
lieve no  one  in  the  house  really  knew  how  it 
passed.  The  confusion  of  small  events,  all 
huddled  together  one  on  tlie  other;  bewildered 
every  one.  There  were  dresses  sent  home  that 
had  been  forgotten ;  there  were  trunks  to  be 
packed  and  unpacked  and  packed  again  ;  there 
were  presents  from  friends  far  and  near,  friends 
high  and  low.  We  were  all  needlessly  hurried  ; 
all  nervously  expectant  of  the  morrow.  Sir 
Percival,  especially,  was  too  restless  now  to  re- 
main five  minutes  together  in  the  same  place. 
That  short,  shai'p  cough  of  his  troubled  him 
more  than  ever.  He  was  in  and  out  of  the 
house  all  day  long ;  and  he  seemed  to  grow  so 
inquisitive  on  a  sudden,  that  he  questioned  the 
very  strangers  wlio  came  on  small  errands  to 
the  house.  Add  to  all  this,  the  one  perpetual 
thought,  in  Laura's  mind  and  mine,  that  we 
were  to  part  the  next  day,  and  the  haunting 
dread,  unexpressed  by  either  of  us,  and  yet  ever 
present  to  both,  that  this  deplorable  marriage 
might  prove  to  be  the  one  fatal  error  of  her  life 
and  the  one  hopeless  sorrow  of  mine.  For  the 
first  time  in  all  tlie  years  of  our  close  and  hap- 
py intercourse  we  almost  avoided  looking  each 
other  in  the  face ;  and  we  refrained,  by  com- 
mon consent,  from  speaking  together  in  private, 
through  the  whole  evening.  I  can  dwell  on  it 
no  longer.  Whatever  future  sorrows  may  be  in 
store  for  me,  I  shall  always  look  back  on  this 
twenty-second  of  December  as  the  most  com- 
fortless and  most  miserable  day  of  my  life. 

I  am  writing  these  lines  in  the  solitude  of  my 
own  room,  long  after  midnight;  having  just 
come  back  from  a  stolen  look  at  Laura  in  her 
F 


pretty  little  white  bed — the  bed  she  has  occu- 
pied since  the  days  of  her  girlhood. 

Thei'e  she  lay,  unconscious  that  I  was  looking 
at  her — quiet,  more  quiet  than  I  had  dared  to 
hope,  but  not  sleeping.  The  glimmer  of  the 
night-light  showed  me  that  her  eyes  were  only 
partially  closed:  the  traces  of  tears  glistened 
between  her  eyelids.  My  little  keepsake — only 
a  brooch — lay  on  the  table  at  her  bedside,  with 
her  prayer-book,  and  the  miniature  portrait  of 
her  father  which  she  takes  with  her  wherever 
she  goes.  I  waited  a  moment,  looking  at  her 
from  behind  her  pillow,  as  she  lay  beneath  me, 
with  one  arm  and  hand  resting  white  on  the 
white  coverlet,  so  still,  so  quietly  breathing,  that 
the  frill  on  her  night-dress  never  moved — I  wait- 
ed looking  at  her,  as  I  have  seen  her  thousands 
of  times,  as  I  shall  never  see  her  again — and 
then  stole  back  to  my  room.  My  own  love ! 
with  all  your  wealth,  and  all  your  beauty,  how 
friendless  you  are !  The  one  man  who  would 
give  his  heart's  life  to  serve  you,  is  far  away, 
tossing,  this  stormy  night,  on  the  awful  sea. 
Who  else  is  left  to  you  ?  No  father,  no  brother 
— no  living  creature  but  the  helpless,  useless  wo- 
man who  writes  these  sad  lines,  and  watches  by 
you  for  the  morning,  in  sorrow  that  she  can  not 
compose,  in  doubt  that  she  can  not  conquer. 
Oh,  what  a  trust  is  to  be  placed  in  that  man's 
hands  to-morrow !  If  ever  he  forgets  it ;  if  ever 
he  injures  a  hair  of  her  head — ! 

The  taventt-third  of  December.  —  Seven 
o'chck.  A  wild  unsettled  morning.  She  has 
just  risen — better  and  calmer,  now  that  the  time 
has  come,  than  she  was  yesterday. 


Ten  o'clock.  She  is  dressed.  We  have  kiss- 
ed each  other;  we  have  promised  each  other 
not  to  lose  courage.  I  am  away  for  a  moment 
in  my  own  room.  In  the  whirl  and  confusion 
of  my  thoughts,  I  can  detect  that  strange  fancy 
of  some  hinderance  happening  to  stop  the  mar- 
riage still  hanging  about  my  mind.  Is  it  hang- 
ing about  his  mind,  too?  I  see  him  from  the 
window,  moving  hither  and  thither  uneasily 
among  the  carriages  at  the  door. — How  can  I 
write  such  folly !  The  marriage  is  a  certainty. 
In  less  than  half  an  hour  we  start  for  the 
church. 


Eleven  o'clock.    It  is  all  over.    They  are  mar- 
ried. 


Three  o^clock.  They  are  gone !  I  am  blind 
with  crying — I  can  write  no  more — 

****** 

Blackwatee  Pake,  Hampbhike. 

June  27. — Six  months  to  look  back  on — six 
long,  lonely  months  since  Laura  and  I  last  saw 
each  other ! 

How  many  days  have  I  still  to  M'ait?  Only 
one  !  To-morrow,  the  twenty-eighth,  the  trav- 
elers return  to  England.  I  can  hardly  realize 
m'y  own  happiness  ;  I  can  hardly  believe  that  the 
next  four-and-twenty  hours  will  complete  the 
last  day  of  separation  between  Laura  and  me. 

She  and  her  husband  have  been  in  Italy  all 
the  winter,  and  afterward  in  the  Tvrol.  They 
come  back,  accompanied  bj'  Count  Fosco  and 
his  wife,  who  propose  to  settle  somewhere  in 


82 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


the  neighborhood  of  London,  and  wlio  have  en-  1 
gaged  to  stay  at  Bhickwater  Park  for  the  sum-  i 
mer  months  before  deciding  on  a  pLice  of  resi- 
dence. So  long  as  Laura  returns,  no  matter 
who  returns  with  her.  Sir  Percival  may  fill  the 
house  from  floor  to  ceiling,  if  he  likes,  on  con- 
dition that  his  wife  and  I  inhabit  it  together. 

Meanwhile,  here  I  am,  established  at  Black- 
water  Park;  "the  ancient  and  interesting  seat" 
(as  the  county  history  obligingly  informs  me) 
"of  Sir  Percival  Glyde,  Bart." — and  the  future 
abiding  place  (as  I  may  now  venture  to  add,  on 
my  own  account)  of  plain  Marian  Halcombe, 
spinster,  now  settled  in  a  snug  little  sitting- 
room,  with  a  cup  of  tea  by  her  side,  and  all  her 
earthly  possessions  ranged  round  her  in  three 
boxes  and  a  bag. 

I  left  Limmeridge  yesterday,  having  re- 
ceived Laura's  delightful  letter  from  Paris  the 
day  before.  I  had  been  j)reviously  uncertain 
whether  I  was  to  meet  them  in  London  or  in 
Hampshire ;  but  this  last  letter  informed  me 
that  Sir  Percival  proposed  to  land  at  South- 
ampton, and  to  travel  straight  on  to  his  coun- 
try-house. He  has  spent  so  much  money 
abroad  that  he  has  none  left  to  defray  the  ex- 
penses of  living  in  London  for  the  remainder 
of  the  season  ;  and  he  is  economically  resolved 
to  pass  the  summer  and  autumn  quietly  at 
Blackwater.  Laura  has  had  more  than  enough 
of  excitement  and  change  of  scene,  and  is 
pleased  at  the  prospect  of  country  tranquillity 
and  retirement  which  her  husband's  prudence 
provides  for  her.  As  for  me,  I  am  ready  to  be 
hap])y  any  where  in  her  society.  We  are  all, 
therefore,  well  contented  in  our  various  ways, 
to  begin  with. 

Last  night  I  slept  in  London,  and  was  delay- 
ed there  so  long  to-day,  by  various  calls  and 
commissions,  that  I  did  not  reach  Blackwater 
this  evening  till  after  dusk. 

Judging  by  my  vague  impressions  of  the 
])lace,  thus  far,  it  is  the  exact  opposite  of  Lim- 
meridge. The  house  is  situated  on  a  dead  flat, 
and  seems  to  be  shut  in — almost  suffocated,  to 
my  north-country  notions  —  by  trees.  I  have 
seen  nobody  but  the  man-servant  who  opened 
the  door  to  me,  and  the  housekeeper,  a  very 
civil  person,  who  showed  me  the  way  to  my  own 
room,  and  got  me  my  tea.  I  have  a  nice  little 
boudoir  and  bedroom,  at  the  end  of  a  long  pas- 
sage on  the  first  floor.  Tlie  servants'  and  some 
of  the  spare  rooms  are  on  the  second  floor ; 
and  all  the  living  rooms  are  on  the  ground- 
floor.  I  liave  not  seen  one  of  them  yet,  and  I 
know  nothing  about  the  house,  except  that  one 
wing  of  it  is  said  to  be  five  hundred  years  old ; 
that  it  had  a  moat  round  it  once ;  and  that  it 
gets  its  name  of  Blackwater  from  a  lake  in  the 
park. 

Eleven  o'clock  has  just  struck,  in  a  ghostly 
and  solemn  manner,  from  a  turret  over  the  cen- 
tre of  the  house,  which  I  saw  M'hen  I  came  in. 
A  large  dog  has  been  woke,  ap])arently  by  the 
sound  of  the  bell,  and  is  howling  and  yawning 
drearily  somewhere  round  a  corner.  I  hear  ech- 
oing footsteps  in  the  passage  below,  and  the  iron 
tham])ing  of  bolts  and  l)ars  at  the  house-door. 
The  servants  arc  evidently  going  to  bed.  Shall 
I  follow  their  example  ? 

No :  I  am  not  half  sleepy  enough.  Sleepy, 
did  I  say  ?    I  feel  as  if  I  should  never  close  my 


eyes  again.  The  bare  anticipation  of  seeing 
that  dear  face  and  hearing  that  well-known 
voice,  to-morrow,  keeps  me  in  a  perpetual  fever 
of  excitement.  If  I  only  had  the  privileges  of 
a  man,  I  would  order  out  Sir  Percival's  best 
horse  instantly,  and  tear  away  on  a  night-gal- 
lop, eastward,  to  meet  the  rising  sun — a  long, 
hard,  heavy,  ceaseless  gallop  of  hours  and  hours, 
like  the  famous  highwayman's  ride  to  York.  Be- 
ing, however,  nothing  but  a  woman,  condemned 
to  patience,  propriety,  and  petticoats  for  life,  I 
must  respect  the  housekeeper's  opinions,  and 
try  to  compose  myself  in  some  feeble  and  fem- 
inine way. 

Reading  is  out  of  the  question — I  can't  fix 
my  attention  on  books.  Let  me  try  if  I  can 
write  myself  into  sleejnness  and  fatigue.  My 
journal  has  been  very  much  neglected  of  late. 
What  can  I  recall — standing,  as  I  now  do,  on  the 
threshold  of  a  new  life — of  persons  and  events, 
of  chances  and  changes,  during  the  jiast  six 
months — the  long,  weary,  empty  interval  since 
Laura's  wedding-day  ? 

Walter  Hartright  is  uppermost  in  my  mem- 
ory ;  and  he  passes  first  in  the  shadowy  proces- 
sion of  my  absent  friends.  I  received  a  few 
lines  from  him,  after  the  landing  of  the  expedi- 
tion in  Honduras,  written  more  cheerfully  and 
hopefully  than  he  has  written  yet.  A  month  ot 
six  weeks  later  I  saw  an  extract  from  an  Amer- 
ican newspaper  describing  the  departure  of  the 
adventurers  on  their  inland  journey.  They  were 
last  seen  entering  a  wild  jn-imeval  forest,  each 
man  with  liis  rifle  on  his  shoulder  and  his  bag- 
gage at  his  back.  Since  that  time  civilization 
has  lost  all  trace  of  them.  Not  a  line  more 
have  I  received  from  Walter;  not  a  fragment 
of  news  from  the  expedition  has  appeared  in 
any  of  the  public  journals. 

The  same  dense,  disheartening  obscurity  hangs 
over  the  fate  and  fortunes  of  Anne  Catherick 
and  her  companion,  Mrs.  Clements.  Nothing 
whatever  has  been  heard  of  either  of  them. 
Whether  they  are  in  the  country  or  out  of  it, 
whether  they  are  living  or  dead,  no  one  knows. 
Even  Sir  Percival's  solicitor  has  lost  all  hope, 
and  has  ordered  the  useless  search  after  the 
fugitives  to  be  finally  given  up. 

Our  pood  old  friend  Mr.  Gilmore  has  met 
with  a  sad  check  in  his  active  jn'ofessional  ca- 
reer. Early  in  the  sjiring  we  ^^ere  alarmed  by 
hearing  that  he  had  been  found  insensible  at 
his  desk,  and  that  the  seizure  had  been  pro- 
nounced to  be  an  ajiojjlectic  fit.  He  had  been 
long  complaining  of  fullness  and  o])pre.ssion  in 
the  head ;  and  his  doctor  had  warned  him  of 
the  consequences  that  would  follow  his  ])ersist- 
ency  in  continuing  to  work,  early  and  late,  as 
if  he  was  still  a  young  man.  The  result  now  is 
that  he  has  been  ])ositively  ordered  to  keep  out 
of  his  office  for  a  year  to  come  at  least,  and  to 
seek  repose  of  body  and  relief  of  mind  by  alto- 
gether changing  his  usual  mode  of  life.  The 
business  is  left,  accordingly,  to  be  carried  on 
by  his  partner;  and  lie  is  himself,  at  this  mo- 
ment, away  in  Germany  visiting  some  relations 
who  are  settled  there  in  mercantile  ]nirsuits. 
Thus  another  true  friend  and  trust-worthy  ad- 
viser is  lost  to  us — lost,  I  earnestly  hope  and 
trust,  for  a  time  only. 

Poor  Mrs.  Vesey  traveled  with  me  as  far  as 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


83 


London.  It  was  impossible  to  abandon  her  to 
solitude  at  LiniineridL,'e  after  Laura  and  I  had 
both  left  the  house ;  and  we  have  arranged  that 
she  is  to  live  witii  an  unmarried  younger  sister 
of  hers  who  keejjs  a  scliool  at  Clapham.  She 
is  to  come  here  this  autunin'to  visit  her  pupil — 
I  might  almost  say,  her  adopted  child.  I  saw 
the  good  old  lady  safe  to  her  destination  ;  and 
left  her  in  the  care  of  her  relative,  quietly  hap- 
py at  the  prospect  of  seeing  Laura  again  in  a 
few  months'  time. 

As  for  Mr.  Fairlie,  I  believe  I  am  guilty  of 
no  injustice  if  I  describe  him  as  being  unutter- 
ably relieved  by  having  the  house  clear  of  us 
women.  The  idea  of  his  missing  his  niece  is 
simply  preposterous — he  used  to  let  months  pass 
in  the  old  times  without  attemjiting  to  see  her 
— and,  in  my  case  and  Mrs.  Vesey's,  I  take 
leave  to  consider  his  telling  us  both  that  he  was 
half  heart-broken  at  our  dei)arture  to  be  equiva- 
lent to  a  confession  that  he  was  secretly  re- 
joiced to  get  rid  of  us.  His  last  caprice  has 
led  him  to  keep  two  photograjjliers  incessantly 
employed  on  producing  sun-])ictures  of  all  the 
treasures  and  curiosities  in  his  i)ossession.  One 
complete  copy  of  the  collection  of  photographs 
is  to  be  presented  to  the  Mechanics'  Institution 
of  Carlisle,  mounted  on  tiie  finest  cardboard, 
with  ostentatious  red-letter  inscriptions  under- 
neath. "  Madonna  and  Child,  by  Raphael.  In 
tlie  possession  of  Frederick  Fairlie,  Esquire." 
"  Copper  coin  of  the  period  of  Tiglath-Fileser. 
In  the  possession  of  Frederick  Fairlie, Esquire." 
"  Unique  Rembrandt  etching.  Known  all  over 
Europe  as  The  Smudge,  from  a  jirinter's  blot  in 
tlie  corner  which  exists  in  no  other  copy.  Val- 
ued at  three  hundred  guineas.  In  the  posses- 
sion of  Frederick  Fairlie,  Esquire."  Dozens  of 
photographs  of  this  sort,  and  all  inscribed  in 
this  manner,  were  completed  before  I  left  Cum- 
berland, and  hundreds  more  remain  to  be  done. 
With  this  new  interest  to  occujjy  him,  Mr.  Fair- 
He  will  be  a  happy  man  for  months  and  months 
to  come ;  and  the  two  unfortunate  photogra- 
phers will  share  tlie  social  martyrdom  which  he 
has  hitherto  inflicted  on  his  valet  alone. 

So  much  for  the  persons  and  events  which 
hold  the  foremost  place  in  my  memory.  W^hat 
next  of  the  one  person  who  holds  the  foremost 
place  in  my  heart?  Laura  has  been  present  to 
my  thoughts  all  the  while  I  have  been  writing 
tliese  lines.  What  can  I  recall  of  her,  during 
the  past  six  mouths,  before  I  close  my  journal 
for  the  night  ? 

I  have  only  her  letters  to  guide  me ;  and,  on 
the  most  important  of  all  the  questions  which 
our  correspondence  can  discuss,  every  one  of 
those  letters  leaves  me  in  the  dark. 

Does  he  treat  her  kindly  ?  Is  she  happier 
now  than  she  was  when  I  parted  with  her  on  the 
wedding-day?  All  my  letters  have  contained 
these  two  inquiries,  put  more  or  less  directly, 
now  in  one  form,  and  now  in  another ;  and  all, 
on  that  one  point  only,  have  remained  without 
reply,  or  have  been  answered  as  if  my  questions 
merely  related  to  the  state  of  her  health.  She 
informs  me,  over  and  over  again,  that  she  is 
perfectly  well ;  that  traveling  agrees  with  her ; 
that  she  is  getting  through  the  winter,  for  the 
first  time  in  her  life,  without  catching  cold — but 
not  a  word  can  I  find  any  where  which  tells  me 
plainly  that  she  is  reconciled  to  her  marriage, 


'  and  that  she  can  now  look  back  to  the  twenty- 
third  of  December  without  any  bitter  feelings 
of  repentance  and  regret.  The  name  of  her 
husband  is  only  mentioned  in  her  letters  as  she 
might  mention  tiie  name  of  a  friend  who  was 
traveling  with  them,  and  who  had  imdertaken 
to  make  all  the  arrangements  for  the  journey. 
"Sir  Percival"  has  settled  that  we  leave  on  such 
a  day ;  "  Sir  Percival"  has  decided  that  we  trav- 
el by  such  a  road.  Sometimes  she  writes  "  Per- 
cival" only,  but  very  seldom — in  nine  cases  out 
of  ten  she  gives  him  his  title. 

I  can  not  find  that  his  habits  and  opinions 
have  changed  and  colored  hers  in  any  single 
])articular.  Tlie  usual  moral  transformation 
which  is  insensibly  wrought  in  a  young,  fresh, 
sensitive  woman  by  her  marriage,  seems  never 
to  have  taken  place  in  Laura.  She  writes  of 
her  own  thoughts  and  impressions,  amidst  all  the 
wonders  she  has  seen,  exactly  as  she  might  have 
written  to  some  one  else,  if  I  had  been  traveling 
with  her  instead  of  her  husband.  I  see  no  be- 
trayal any  where  of  sympathy  of  any  kind  ex- 
isting between  them.  Even  when  she  wanders 
from  the  subject  of  her  travels,  and  occujjies 
herself  with  the  prospects  that  await  her  in  En- 
gland, her  speculations  are  busied  with  her  fu- 
ture as  my  sister,  and  persistently  neglect  to 
notice  her  future  as  Sir  Percival's  wife.  In  all 
this  there  is  no  under  tone  of  complaint,  to 
warn  me  that  she  is  absolutely  unhappy  in  her 
married  life.  The  impression  I  have  derived 
from  our  correspondence  does  not,  thank  God, 
lead  me  to  any  such  distressing  conclusion  as 
that.  I  only  see  a  sad  torpor,  an  unchangeable 
indili'erence,  when  I  turn  my  mind  from  her  in 
the  old  character  of  a  sister,  and  look  at  her, 
through  the  medium  of  her  letters,  in  the  new 
character  of  a  wife.  In  other  words,  it  is  al- 
ways Laura  Fairlie  who  has  been  writing  to 
me  for  the  last  six  months,  and  never  Lady 
Clyde. 

The  strange  silence  which  she  maintains  on 
the  subject  of  her  husband's  character  and  con- 
duct she  preserves  with  almost  equal  resolution 
in  the  few  references  which  her  later  letters 
contain  to  the  name  of  her  husband's  bosom 
friend.  Count  Fosco. 

For  some  unexplained  reason  the  Count  and 
his  wife  appear  to  have  changed  their  plans  ab- 
ruptly at  the  end  of  last  autumn,  and  to  have 
gone  to  Vienna,  instead  of  going  to  Rome,  at 
which  latter  ])lace  Sir  Percival  had  expected  to 
find  them  when  he  left  England.  They  only 
quitted  Vienna  in  the  spring,  and  traveled  as 
far  as  the  Tyrol  to  meet  the  bride  and  bride- 
groom on  their  homeward  journey.  Laura 
writes  readily  enough  about  the  meeting  with 
Madame  Fosco,  and  assures  me  that  she  has 
found  her  aunt  so  much  changed  for  the  better — 
so  much  qitieter  and  so  miich  more  sensible  as 
a  wife  than  she  was  as  a  single  woman — that  I 
shall  hardly  know  her  again  when  I  see  her  here. 
But  on  the  subject  of  Count  Fosco  (who  inter- 
ests me  infinitely  more  than  his  wife)  Laura  is 
provokingly  circumspect  and  silent.  She  only 
says  that  he  puzzles  her,  and  that  she  will  not 
tell  me  what  her  impression  of  him  is  until  I 
liave  seen  him,  and  formed  my  own  opinion  first. 
This,  to  my  mind,  looks  ill  for  the  Count.  Lau- 
ra has  preserved,  far  more  perfectly  than  most 
people  do  in  later  life,  the  child's  subtle  faculty 


84 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


of  knowing  a  friend  by  instinct;  and,  if  I  am 
right  in  assuming  that  her  first  impression  of 
Count  Fosco  has  not  been  favorable,  I,  for  one, 
am  in  some  danger  of  doubting  and  distrusting 
that  ilhistrious  foreigner  before  I  have  so  much 
as  set  eyes  on  him.  But  patience,  patience  ; 
this  uncertainty,  and  many  uncertainties  more, 
can  not  List  much  longer.  To-morrow  will  see 
all  my  doubts  in  a  fair  way  of  being  cleared  up, 
sooner  or  later. 

Twelve  o'clock  has  struck,  and  I  have  just 
come  back  to  close  these  pages,  after  looking 
out  at  my  open  window. 

It  is  a  still,  sultry,  moonless  night.  The  stars 
are  dull  and  few.  The  trees,  that  shut  out  the 
view  on  all  sides,  look  dimly  black  and  solid  in 
the  distance,  like  a  great  wall  of  rock.  I  hear 
the  croaking  of  frogs,  faint  and  far  off;  and  the 
echoes  of  the  great  clock-bell  hum  in  the  airless 
calm  long  after  the  strokes  have  ceased.  I  won- 
der how  Blackwater  Park  will  look  in  the  day- 
time ?     I  don't  altogether  like  it  by  night. 

28^A. — A  day  of  investigations  and  discoveries 
— a  more  interesting  day,  for  many  reasons,  than 
I  had  ventured  to  anticipate. 

I  began  my  sight-seeing,  of  course,  with  the 
house. 

The  main  body  of  the  building  is  of  the  time 
of  that  highly  overrated  woman,  Queen  Eliza- 
beth. On  the  ground-floor  there  are  two  huge- 
ly long  galleries,  with  low  ceilings,  lying  parallel 
with  eacli  other,  and  rendered  additionally  dark 
and  dismal  by  hideous  family  portraits — every 
one  of  which  I  should  like  to  burn.  The  rooms 
on  the  floor  above  the  two  galleries  are  kept  in 
tolerable  repair,  but  are  very  seldom  used.  The 
civil  liousekeej)er,  who  acted  as  my  guide,  of- 
fered to  show  me  over  them  ;  but  considerately 
added  that  she  feared  I  should  find  them  i-ather 
out  of  order.  My  respect  for  the  integrity  of 
my  own  petticoats  and  stockings  infinitely  ex- 
ceeds my  respect  for  all  the  Elizabethan  bed- 
rooms in  the  kingdom  ;  so  I  positively  declined 
exploring  the  upper  regions  of  dust  and  dirt  at 
the  risk  of  soiling  my  nice  clean  clothes.  The 
housekeeper  said,  "  I  am  quite  of  yoiu-  opinion. 
Miss ;"  and  appeared  to  think  me  the  most  sensi- 
ble woman  she  had  met  with  for  a  long  time  past. 

So  much,  then,  for  the  main  building.  Two 
wings  are  added  at  either  end  of  it.  The  half- 
ruined  wing  on  the  left  (as  you  approach  the 
house)  was  once  a  place  of  residence  standing 
by  itself,  and  was  built  in  the  fourteenth  cen- 
tury. One  of  Sir  Percival's  maternal  ancestors 
— I  don't  remember,  and  don't  care,  which — 
tacked  on  the  main  building,  at  right  angles  to 
it,  in  the  aforesaid  Queen  Elizabeth's  time. 
The  housekeeper  told  me  that  tlie  architecture 
of  "the  old  wing,"  both  outside  and  inside,  was 
considered  remarkably  fine  by  good  judges.  On 
further  investigation  I  discovered  that  good 
judges  could  only  exercise  their  abilities  on  Sir 
Percival's  piece  of  anticjuity  by  previously  dis- 
missing from  their  minds  all  fear  of  damp,  dark- 
ness, and  rats.  Under  these  circumstances,  I 
unhesitatingly  acknowledged  myself  to  be  no 
judge  at  all ;  and  suggested  that  we  should  treat 
"the  old  wing"  precisely  as  we  had  ])reviously 
treated  the  Elizabethan  l)edrooms.  Once  more 
the  housekeeper  said,  "I  am  quite  of  your  opin- 
ion, Miss  ;"  and  once  more  she  looked  at  me, 


with  undisguised  admiration  of  my  extraordi- 
nary common  sense. 

We  went  next  to  the  wing  on  the  right, 
which  was  built,  by  way  of  completing  the  won- 
derful architectural  jumble  at  Blackwater  Park, 
in  the  time  of  George  the  Second.  This  is  the 
habitable  ]5art  of  the  house,  which  has  been  re- 
paired and  redecorated  inside  on  Laura's  ac- 
count. My  two  rooms,  and  all  the  good  bed- 
rooms besides,  are  on  the  first  floor ;  and  the 
basement  contains  a  drawing-room,  a  dining- 
room,  a  morning-room,  a  library,  and  a  pretty 
little  boudoir  for  Laura — all  very  nicely  orna- 
mented in  the  bright  modern  M-ay,  and  all  very 
elegantly  furnished  with  the  delightful  modern 
luxuries.  None  of  the  rooms  are  any  thing  like 
so  large  and  airy  as  our  rooms  at  Limmeridge; 
but  they  all  look  pleasant  to  live  in.  I  was  ter- 
ribly afraid,  from  what  I  had  heard  of  Black- 
water  Park,  of  fatiguing  antique  chairs,  and  dis- 
mal stained  glass,  and  musty,  frouzy  hangings, 
and  all  the  barbarous  lumber  which  people  born 
without  a  sense  of  comfort  accumulate  about 
them,  in  defiance  of  all  consideration  due  to  the 
convenience  of  their  friends.  It  is  an  inexpres- 
sible relief  to  find  that  the  nineteenth  century' 
has  invaded  this  strange  future  home  of  mine, 
and  has  swept  the  dirty  "good  old  times"  out 
of  the  way  of  our  dailj'  life. 

I  dawdled  away  the  morning — part  of  the 
time  in  the  rooms  down  stairs,  and  part  out 
of  doors,  in  the  great  square  which  is  formed  by 
the  three  sides  of  the  house,  and  by  the  lofty 
iron  railings  and  gates  which  protect  it  in  front. 
A  large  circular  fish-pond,  with  stone  sides  and 
an  allegorical  leaden  monster  in  the  middle,  oc- 
cupies the  centre  of  the  square.  The  pond  it- 
self is  full  of  gold  and  silver  fish,  and  is  encir- 
cled by  a  broad  belt  of  the  softest  turf  I  ever 
walked  on.  I  loitered  here,  on  the  shady  side, 
pleasantly  enough,  till  luncheon  time ;  and  aft- 
er that  took  my  broad  sti'aw-hat  and  wandered 
out  alone,  in  tlie  warm  lovely  sunlight,  to  ex- 
plore the  grounds. 

Daylight  confirmed  the  impression  which  I 
had  felt  the  night  before,  of  there  being  too 
many  trees  at  Blackwater.  The  house  is  stifled 
by  them.  They  are,  for  the  most  part,  young, 
and  planted  far  too  thickly.  I  suspect  there 
must  have  been  a  ruinous  cutting  down  of  tim- 
ber all  over  the  estate  before  Sir  Percival's  time, 
and  an  angry  anxiety  on  the  part  of  the  next 
possessor  to  fill  up  all  the  gaps  as  thickly  and 
rapidly  as  possible.  After  looking  about  me  in 
front  of  the  house,  I  observed  a  flower-garden 
on  my  left  hand,  and  walked  toward  it  to  sec 
what  I  could  discover  in  that  direction. 

On  a  nearer  view,  the  garden  proved  to  be 
small  and  poor  and  ill-kept.  I  left  it  behind 
me,  opened  a  little  gate  in  a  ring  fence,  and 
found  myself  in  a  plantation  of  fir-trees.  A 
pretty  winding  path,  artificially  made,  led  me 
on  among  the  trees,  and  my  north-country  ex- 
perience soon  informed  me  that  I  was  approach- 
ing sandy,  heathy  ground.  After  a  walk  of 
more  than  half  a  mile,  I  should  think,  among 
the  firs,  the  path  took  a  sharp  turn,  the  trees 
abruptly  ceased  to  appear  on  either  side  of  me, 
and  I  found  myself  standing  suddenly  on  the 
margin  of  a  vast  open  space,  and  looking  down 
at  the  Blackwater  lake  from  which  the  house 
takes  its  name. 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


85 


The  ground,  shelving  away  below  me,  was  all 
sand,  with  a  few  little  heathy  hillocks  to  break 
the  monotony  of  it  in  certain  places.  The  lake 
itself  had  evidently  once  flowed  to  the  spot  on 
which  I  stood,  and  had  been  gradually  wasted 
and  dried  up  to  less  than  a  third  of  its  former 
size.  I  saw  its  still,  stagnant  waters,  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  away  from  me  in  the  hollow,  separat- 
ed into  pools  and  ponds,  by  twining  reeds  and 
rashes,  and  little  knolls  of  earth.  "On  the  far- 
ther bank  from  me  the  trees  rose  thickly  again, 
and  shut  out  the  view,  and  cast  their  black 
shadows  on  the  sluggish,  shallow  water.  As  I 
walked  down  to  the  lake  I  saw  that  the  ground 
on  its  farther  side  was  damp  and  marshy,  over- 
grown with  i-ank  grass  and  dismal  willows.  The 
water,  which  was  clear  enough  on  the  open 
sandy  side,  where  the  sun  shone,  looked  black 
and  poisonous  opposite  to  me,  where  it  lay  deep- 
er under  the  shade  of  the  spongy  banks  and  the 
rank  overhanging  thickets  and  tangled  trees. 
The  frogs  were  croaking,  and  the  rats  were 
slipping  in  and  out  of  the  shadowy  water,  like 
live  shadows  themselves,  as  I  got  nearer  to  the 
marshy  side  of  the  lake.  I  saw  here,  lying  half 
in  and  half  out  of  the  water,  the  rotten  wreck 
of  an  old  overturned  boat,  with  a  sickly  spot  of 
sunlight  glimmering  through  a  gap  in  "the  trees 
on  its  dry  surface,  and  a  snake  basking  in  the 
midst  of  the  spot,  fantastically  coiled,  and  treach- 
erously still.  Far  and  near  the  view  suggested 
the  same  dreary  impressions  of  solitude  and  de- 
cay ;  and  the  glorious  brightness  of  the  summer 
sky  overhead  seemed  only  to  deepen  and  hard- 


en the  gloom  and  barrenness  of  the  wilderness 
on  which  it  shone.  I  turned  and  retraced  my 
steps  to  the  high,  heathy  ground ;  directing 
them  a  little  aside  from  my  former  path,  to- 
ward a  shabby  old  wooden  shed,  which  stood  on 
the  outer  skirt  of  the  fir  plantation,  and  which 
had  hitherto  been  too  unimportant  to  share  my 
notice  with  the  wide,  wild  prospect  of  the  lake. 

On  approaching  the  shed  I  found  that  it  had 
once  been  a  boat-house,  and  that  an  attempt 
had  apparently  been  made  to  convert  it  after- 
ward into  a  sort  of  rude  arbor,  by  placing  inside 
it  a  fii-wood  seat,  a  few  stools,  and  a  table.  I 
entered  the  place,  and  sat  down  for  a  little  while 
to  rest  and  get  my  breath  again. 

I  had  not  been  in  the  boat-house  more  than 
a  minute  when  it  struck  me  that  the  sound  of 
my  own  quick  breathing  was  very  strangely 
echoed  by  something  beneath  me.  I  listened 
intently  for  a  moment,  and  heard  a  low,  tliick, 
S(jbbing  breath  that  seemed  to  come  from  the 
ground  nnder  the  seat  which  I  was  occupying. 
My  nerves  are  not  easily  shaken  by  trifles ;  but 
on  this  occasion  I  started  to  my  feet  in  a  fright 
— called  out — received  no  answer — summoned 
back  my  recreant  courage — and  looked  under 
the  seat. 

There,  crouched  up  in  the  farthest  corner, 
lay  the  forlorn  cause  of  my  terror,  in  the  shape 
of  a  poor  little  dog — a  black-and-white  spaniel. 
The  creature  moaned  feebly  when  I  looked  at  it 
and  called  to  it,  but  never  stirred.  I  moved 
away  the  seat  and  looked  closer.  The  poor  lit- 
tle dog's  eyes  were  glazing  fast,  and  there  were 
spots  of  blood  on  its  glossy  white  side.  The 
misery  of  a  weak,  helpless,  dumb  creature  is 
surely  one  of  the  saddest  of  all  the  mournful 
sights  which  this  world  can  show.  I  lifted  the 
poor  dog  in  my  arms  as  gently  as  I  could,  and 
contrived  a  sort  of  make-shift  hammock  for  him 
to  lie  in,  by  gathering  up  the  front  of  my  dress 
all  round  him.  In  this  way  I  took  the  creature, 
as  ))ainlessly  as  possible,  and  as  fast  as  possible, 
back  to  the  house. 

Finding  no  one  in  the  hall,  I  went  up  at  once 
to  ray  own  sitting-room,  made  a  bed  for  the  dog 
with  one  of  my  old  shawls,  and  rang  the  bell. 
The  largest  and  fattest  of  all  possible  house- 
maids answered  it,  in  a  state  of  cheerful  stupid- 
ity which  would  have  provoked  the  patience  of 
a  saint.  The  girl's  fat,  shapeless  face  actually 
stretched  into  a  broad  grin  at  the  sight  of  the 
wounded  creature  on  the  floor. 

"What  do  you  see  there  to  laugh  at?"  I 
asked,  as  angrily  as  if  she  had  been  a  servant 
of  my  own.     "Do  you  know  whose  dog  it  is  ?" 

"No,  Miss,  that  I  certainly  don't."  She 
stopped  and  looked  down  at  the  spaniel's  in- 
jured side — brightened  suddenly  with  the  irra- 
diation of  a  new  idea — and,  pointing  to  the 
wound  with  a  chuckle  of  satisfaction,  said, 
"That's  Baxter's  doings,  that  is." 

I  Avas  so  exasperated  that  I  could  have  boxed 
her  ears.  "Baxter?"  I  said.  "Who  is  the 
brute  you  call  Baxter  ?" 

The  girl  grinned  again,  more  cheerfully  than 
ever.  "  Bless  j'ou.  Miss  !  Baxter's  the  keeper ; 
and  when  he  finds  strange  dogs  hunting  about  he 
takes  and  shoots  'em.  It's  keeper's  dooty,  Miss. 
I  think  that  dog  will  die.  Here's  where  he's  been 
shot,  ain't  it?  That's  Baxter's  doings,  that  is. 
Baxter's  doings,  Miss,  and  Baxter's  dooty." 


86 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


"THEKB,  CROUCHED  UP  IN  THE  FARTHEST  CORNER,   ETC 


I  was  almost  wicked  enongli  to  wish  that  Bax- 
ter had  shot  the  house-maid  instead  of  the  dog. 
Seeing;  that  it  was  quite  useless  to  expect  this 
densely  impenetrable  personage  to  give  me  any 
help  in  relieving  the  suffering  creature  at  our 
feet,  I  told  her  to  request  the  housekeeper's  at- 
tendance, with  my  compliments.  She  went  out 
exactly  as  she  had  come  in,  grinning  from  ear 
to  ear.  As  the  door  closed  on  her  she  said  to 
herself,  softly,  "  It's  Baxter's  doings  and  Bax- 
ter's dooty — that's  what  it  is." 

The  housekeeper,  a  person  of  some  education 
and  intelligence,  thoughtfully  brought  up  stairs 
with  her  some  milk  and  some  warm  water.  The 
instant  she  saw  the  dog  on  the  floor  she  started 
and  changed  color. 

"Wh}',  Lord  bless  me!"  cried  the  house- 
keeper, "  that  must  be  Mrs.  Catherick's  dog !" 

"Whose?"  I  asked,  in  the  utmost  astonish- 
ment. 

"  Mrs.  Catherick's.  You  seem  to  know  Mrs. 
Catherick,  Miss  Halcombe?" 

"Not  personally.  But  I  have  heard  of  her. 
Does  she  live  here?  Has  she  had  any  news 
of  her  daughter?" 

"  No,  Miss  Halcombe.  She  came  here  to  ask 
for  news." 

"When?" 


"Only  yesterday.  She  said  some  one  had 
mentioned  a  report  to  her  that  her  daughter 
had  been  seen  in  our  neighborhood.  No  such 
report  has  reached  us  here ;  and  no  such  report 
was  known  in  the  village  when  I  sent  to  make 
inquiries  there  on  Mrs.  Catherick's  account.  She 
certainly  brought  this  poor  little  dog  with  her 
when  she  came,  and  I  saw  it  trot  out  after  her 
when  she  went  away.  I  suppose  the  creature 
strayed  into  the  plantations  and  got  shot. 
Where  did  you  find  it.  Miss  Halcombe  ?" 

"  In  the  old  shed  that  looks  out  on  the  lake." 

"Ah,  yes,  that  is  the  plantation  side,  and  the 
poor  thing  dragged  itself,  I  sup])ose,  to  the  near- 
est shelter,  as  dogs  will,  to  die.  If  you  can 
moisten  its  lips  with  the  milk,  Miss  Halcombe, 
I  will  wash  the  clotted  hair  from  the  wound.  I 
am  very  much  afraid  it  is  too  late  to  do  any  good. 
However,  we  can  Init  try." 

Mrs.  Catherick !  The  name  still  rang  in  my 
ears,  as  if  the  housekeeper  had  only  tluit  mo- 
ment surprised  me  by  uttering  it.  While  -nc 
were  attending  to  the  dog  the  words  of  Walter 
Hartright's  caution  to  me  returned  to  my  mem- 
ory :  "  If  ever  Anne  Catherick  crosses  your  path 
make  better  use  of  the  ojijiortunity.  Miss  Hal- 
combe, tlian  I  made  of  it."  The  llndiug  of  the 
wounded  spaniel  had  led  me  already  to  the  dis- 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


87 


coveiy  of  Mrs.  Catherick's  visit  to  Blackwater 
Park ;  and  that  event  might  lead,  iu  its  turn, 
to  something  more.  I  determined  to  make  the 
most  of  the  chance  which  was  now  offered  me, 
and  to  gain  as  much  additional  information  as 
I  could. 

"  Did  yon  say  that  Mrs.  Catherick  lived  any 
where  in  this  neighborhood?" 

*'  Oh,  dear  no,"  said  the  housekeeper.  "  She 
lives  at  Welmingham,  quite  at  the  other  end  of 
the  county — five-and-twenty  miles  off,  at  least." 

"  I  suppose  you  have  known  Mrs.  Catherick 
for  some  years  ?" 

"  On  the  contrary,  Miss  Halcombe,  I  never 
saw  her  before  she  carae  here  yesterday.  I  had 
heard  of  her,  of  course,  because  I  had  heard  of 
Sir  Fercival's  kindness  in  putting  her  daughter 
under  medical  care.  Mrs.  Catherick  is  rather 
a  strange  person  in  her  manners,  but  extremely 
respectable-looking.  »She  seemed  sorely  put  out 
when  she  found  that  there  was  no  foundation — 
none,  at  least,  that  any  of  us  could  discover — for 
the  report  of  her  daughter  having  been  seen  in 
this  neighborhood." 

"I  am  rather  interested  about  Mrs.  Cath- 
erick," I  went  on,  continuing  the  conversation  as 
long  as  possible.  "I  wish  I  had  arrived  here 
soon  enough  to  see  her  yesterday.  Did  she 
Stay  for  any  length  of  time?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  housekeeper,  "she  staid  for 
lome  time.  And  I  think  she  would  have  re- 
gained longer  if  I  had  not  been  called  away  to 
speak  to  a  strange  gentleman — a  gentleman  who 
came  to  ask  when  Sir  Percival  was  expected 
back.  Mrs.  Catherick  got  up  and  left  at  once, 
when  she  heard  the  maid  tell  me  what  the  vis- 
itor's errand  was.  Siie  said  to  me,  at  parting, 
that  there  was  no  need  to  tell  Sir  Percival  of 
her  coming  here.  I  thought  that  rather  an  odd 
remark  to  make,  especially  to  a  person  in  my 
responsible  situation." 

I  thought  it  an  odd  remark,  too.  Sir  Percival 
had  certainly  led  me  to  believe,  at  Limmeridge, 
that  the  most  perfect  confidence  existed  between 
himself  and  Mrs.  Catherick.  If  that  was  the 
case,  why  should  she  be  anxious  to  have  her 
visit  at  Blackwater  Park  kept  a  secret  from 
him? 

"Probably,"  I  said,  seeing  that  the  house- 
keeper expected  me  to  give  my  opinion  on 
Mrs.  Catherick's  parting  woi'ds  ;  "probably  she 
thought  the  announcement  of  her  visit  might 
vex  Sir  Percival  to  no  purpose,  by  reminding 
him  that  her  lost  daughter  was  not  found  yet. 
Did  she  talk  much  on  that  subject  ?" 

"  Very  little,"  replied  the  housekeeper.  "  She 
talked  principally  of  Sir  Percival,  and  asked  a 
gi-eat  many  questions  about  where  he  had  been 
traveling,  and  what  sort  of  lady  his  new  wife 
was.  She  seemed  to  be  more  soured  and  put 
out  than  distressed,  by  failing  to  find  any  traces 
of  her  daughter  in  these  parts.  '  I  give  her  up,' 
were  the  last  words  she  said  that  I  can  remem- 
ber; 'I  give  her  up,  ma'am,  for  lost.'  And 
from  that  she  passed  at  once  to  her  questions 
about  Lady  Glyde ;  wanting  to  know  if  she  was 
a  handsome,  amiable  lady,  comely  and  healthy 
and  young — Ah,  dear !  I  thought  how  it  would 
end.  Look,  Miss  Halcombe!  the  poor  thing  is 
out  of  its  miseiy  at  last !" 

The  dog  was  dead.  It  had  given  a  faint, 
sobbing  cry ;  it  had  suffered  an  instant's  convul- 


sion of  the  limbs,  just  as  those  last  words, 
"  comely  and  healthy  and  young,"  dropped  from 
the  housekeeper's  lips.  The  change  had  hap- 
pened with  startling  suddenness — in  one  mo- 
ment the  creature  lay  lifeless  under  our  hands. 

Eight  o'clock.  —  I  have  just  returned  from 
dining  down  stairs  in  solitary  state.  Tlie  sun- 
set is  burning  redly  on  the  wilderness  of  trees 
that  I  see  from  my  window,  and  I  am  jjoring 
over  my  journal  again,  to  calm  my  impatience 
for  the  return  of  the  travelers.  They  ought  to 
have  arrived,  by  my  calculations,  before  this. 
How  still  and  lonely  the  house  is  in  the  drowsy 
evening  quiet!  Oh,  me!  how  many  minutes 
more  before  I  hear  the  carriage-wheels  and  run 
down  stairs  to  find  myself  in  Laura's  arms? 

The  poor  little  dog !  I  wish  my  first  day  at 
Blackwater  Park  had  not  been  associated  with 
death — though  it  is  only  the  death  of  a  stray 
animal. 

Welmingham— I  see,  on  looking  back  through 
these  private  pages  of  mine,  that  Welmingham 
is  the  name  of  the  place  where  Mrs.  Catherick 
lives.  Her  note  is  still  in  my  possession,  the 
note  in  answer  to  that  letter  about  her  unhap- 
py daughter  which  Sir  Percival  obliged  me  to 
write.  One  of  these  days,  when  I  can  find  a 
safe  opportunity,  I  will  take  the  note  with  me 
by  way  of  introduction,  and  try  what  I  can 
make  of  Mrs.  Catherick  at  a  personal  interview. 
I  don't  understand  her  wisliing  to  conceal  her 
visit  to  this  place  from  Sir  Percival's  knowl- 
edge ;  and  I  don't  feel  half  so  sure,  as  the  house- 
keeper seems  to  do,  that  her  daughter  Anne  is 
not  in  the  neighborhood  after  all.  What  would 
AValter  Hartright  have  said  in  this  emergency? 
Poor,  dear  Hartright!  I  am  beginning  to  feel 
the  want  of  his  honest  advice  and  his  willing 
help  already. 

Surely  I  heard  something?  Yes!  there  is  a 
bustle  of  footsteps  below  stairs.  I  hear  the 
horses' feet;  I  hear  the  rolling  of  wheels.  Away 
with  my  journal  and  my  pen  and  ink !  The 
travelers  have  returned — my  darling  Laura  is 
home  again  at  last ! 

Julij  1st. — The  confusion  of  their  arrival  has 
had  time  to  subside.  Two  days  have  elapsed 
since  the  return  of  the  travelers ;  and  that  in- 
terval has  sufficed  to  put  the  new  machinery 
of  our  lives  at  Blackwater  Park  in  fair  working 
order.  I  may  now  return  to  my  journal  with 
some  little  chance  of  being  able  to  continue  the 
entries  in  it  as  collectedly  as  usual. 

I  think  I  must  begin  by  putting  down  an  odd 
remark  which  has  suggested  itself  to  me  since 
Laura  came  back. 

When  two  members  of  a  family,  or  two  in- 
timate friends,  are  separated,  and  one  goes 
abi-oad  and  one  remains  at  home,  the  return  of 
the  relative  or  friend  who  has  been  traveling 
always  seems  to  place  the  relative  or  friend  who 
has  been  staying  at  home  at  a  painful  disad- 
vantage, when  the  two  first  meet.  The  sudden 
encounter  of  the  new  thoughts  and  new  habits 
eagerly  gained  in  the  one  case,  with  the  old 
thoughts  and  old  habits  passively  preserved  in 
the  other,  seems,  at  first,  to  part  the  sympathies 
of  the  most  loving  relatives  and  the  fondest 
friends,  and  to  set  a  sudden  strangeness,  unex- 
pected by  both  and  uncontrollable  by  both,  be- 


88 


THE  WOMAN  ESf  WHITE. 


tween  them  on  either  side.  After  the  first  hap- 
piness of  my  meeting  with  Laura  was  over,  aft- 
er we  had  sat  down  together,  hand  in  hand, 
to  recover  breath  enough  and  calmness  enough 
to  talk,  I  felt  this  strangeness  instantly,  and  I 
could  see  that  she  felt  it  too.  It  has  partially 
woi-n  away,  now  that  we  have  fallen  back  into 
most  of  our  old  habits,  and  it  will  probably  dis- 
appear before  long.  But  it  has  certainly  had 
an  influence  over  the  first  impressions  that  I 
have  formed  of  her,  now  that  we  are  living  to- 
gether again — for  which  reason  only  I  have 
thought  fit  to  mention  it  here. 

She  has  found  me  unaltered;  but  I  have 
found  her  changed. 

Changed  in  person,  and,  in  one  i-espect, 
changed  in  character.  I  can  not  absolutely  say 
that  she  is  less  beautiful  than  she  used  to  be :  I 
can  only  say  that  she  is  less  beautiful  to  me. 
Others,  who  do  not  look  at  her  with  my  eyes 
and  my  recollections,  would  probably  think  her 
improved.  There  is  more  color,  and  more  de- 
cision and  roundness  of  outline  in  her  face  than 
there  used  to  be ;  and  her  figure  seems  more 
firmly  set,  and  more  sure  and  easy  in  all  its 
movements  than  it  was  in  her  maiden  days. 
But  I  miss  something  when  I  look  at  her — 
something  that  once  belonged  to  the  happy,  in- 
nocent life  of  Laura  Fairlie,  and  that  I  can  not 
find  in  Lady  Glyde.  There  was,  in  the  old 
times,  a  freshness,  a  softness,  an  ever-varying 
and  yet  ever-remaining  tenderness  of  beauty  in 
her  face,  the  charm  of  which  it  is  not  possible 
to  express  in  words — or,  as  poor  Hartright  used 
often  to  say,  in  painting,  either.  This  is  gone. 
I  thought  I  saw  the  faint  reflection  of  it,  for  a 
moment,  when  she  turned  pale  under  the  agita- 
tion of  our  sudden  meeting,  on  the  evening  of 
her  return ;  but  it  has  never  reappeared  since. 
None  of  her  letters  had  prepared  me  for  a  per- 
sonal change  in  her.  On  the  contrary,  they  had 
led  me  to  expect  that  her  marriage  had  left  her, 
in  appearance  at  least,  quite  unaltered.  Per- 
haps I  read  her  letters  wrongly,  in  the  past, 
and  am  now  reading  her  face  wrongly,  in  the 
present  ?  No  matter !  Whether  her  beauty 
has  gained,  or  whether  it  has  lost,  in  the  last 
six  months,  the  separation,  eitlver  way,  lias 
made  her  own  dear  self  more  precious  to  me 
than  ever — and  that  is  one  good  result  of  her 
marriage,  at  any  rate ! 

The  second  change,  the  change  that  I  have 
observed  in  her  character,  has  not  surprised  me, 
because  I  was  prepared  for  it,  in  this  case,  by 
the  tone  of  her  letters.  Now  that  she  is  at 
home  again,  I  find  her  just  as  unwilling  to  en- 
ter into  any  details  on  the  subject  of  her  mar- 
ried life  as  I  had  previously  found  her  all 
through  the  time  of  our  sepai'ation,  when  we 
could  only  communicate  with  each  other  by 
writing.  At  the  first  approach  I  made  to  the 
forbidden  topic  she  put  her  hand  on  my  lips, 
with  a  look  and  gesture  which  touchingly,  al- 
most painfully,  recalled  to  my  memory  the  days 
of  her  gii'lhood  and  the  happy  by-gone  time 
when  there  were  no  secrets  between  us. 

"  Whenever  you  and  I  are  together,  Marian," 
she  said,  "we  shall  both  be  hap])icr  and  easier 
with  one  another  if  we  accept  my  married  life 
for  what  it  is,  and  say  and  think  as  little  about 
it  as  possible.  I  would  tell  you  every  thing, 
darling,  about  myself,"  she  went  on,  nervously 


buckling  and  unbuckling  the  ribbon  round  my 
waist,  "  if  my  confidences  could  only  end  there. 
But  they  could  not — they  would  lead  me  into 
confidences  about  my  husband  too ;  and,  now 
I  am  married,  I  think  I  had  better  avoid  them, 
for  his  sake,  and  for  your  sake,  and  for  mine. 
I  don't  say  that  they  would  distress  you,  or  dis- 
tress me — I  wouldn't  have  you  think  that  for 
the  world.  But — I  want  to  be  so  hajipy,  now  I 
have  got  you  back  again  ;  and  I  want  you  to  be 
so  happy  too — "  She  broke  off  abruptly,  and 
looked  round  the  room,  my  own  sitting-room, 
in  which  we  were  talking.  "Ah!"  she  cried, 
clapping  her  hands  with  a  bright  smile  of  recog- 
nition, "another  old  friend  found  already! 
Your  iDOok-case,  Marian — your  dear-little-shab- 
by-old-satin-wood book-case — how  glad  I  am 
you  brought  it  with  you  from  Limmeridge! 
And  3'our  work-box,  just  as  i;ntidy  as  ever! 
And  the  horrid,  heavy  man's  umbrella  that  you 
always  would  walk  out  with  when  it  rained  ! 
And,  first  and  foremost  of  all,  your  own  dear, 
dark,  clever  gipsy-face,  looking  at  me  just  as 
usual !  It  is  so  like  home  again  to  be  here. 
How  can  we  make  it  more  like  home  still?  I 
will  put  my  father's  portrait  in  your  room  in- 
stead of  in  mine — and  I  will  keep  all  my  little 
treasui'es  from  Limmeridge  here — and  we  will 
pass  hours  and  hours  every  day  with  these  four 
friendly  walls  round  us.  Oh,  Marian !"  she  said, 
suddenly  seating  herself  on  a  footstool  at  my 
knees,  and  looking  up  earnestly  in  mj'  face, 
"  promise  you  will  never  marry,  and  leave  me. 
It  is  selfish  to  say  so,  but  you  are  so  much  bet- 
ter off  as  a  single  woman — unless — unless  you 
are  very  fond  of  3'our  husband — but  you  won't 
be  veiy  fond  of  any  body  but  me,  will  you?" 
She  stopped  again  ;  crossed  my  hands  on  my 
lap;  and  laid  her  face  on  them.  "Have  yon 
been  writing  many  letters,  and  receiving  many 
letters,  lately  ?"  she  asked,  in  low,  suddenly-al- 
tered tones.  I  understood  what  the  question 
meant ;  but  I  thought  it  my  duty  not  to  encour- 
age her  by  meeting  her  half  way.  "Have  you 
heard  from  him  ?"  she  went  on,  coaxing  me  to 
forgive  the  more  direct  appeal  on  which  she  now 
ventured,  by  kissing  my  hands,  upon  which  her 
face  still  rested.  "  Is  he  well  and  happy,  and 
getting  on  in  his  profession  ?  Has  he  recover- 
ed himself — and  forgotten  iiief^ 

She  should  not  have  asked  those  questions. 
She  should  have  remembered  her  own  resolu- 
tion, on  the  morning  when  Sir  Percival  held 
her  to  her  marriage  engagement,  and  when  she 
resigned  the  book  of  Hartright's  drawings  into 
my  hands  forever.  But,  ah  me!  where  is  the 
faultless  human  creature  who  can  persevere  in 
a  good  resolution  without  sometimes  failing  and 
falling  back?  Where  is  the  woman  who  has 
ever  really  torn  from  her  heart  the  image  that 
has  been  once  fixed  in  it  by  a  true  love  ?  Books 
tell  us  that  such  unearthly  creatures  have  exist- 
ed— but  wliat  does  our  own  experience  say  iu 
answer  to  books  ? 

I  made  no  attempt  to  remonstrate  with  her : 
perhaps  because  I  sincerely  a])preciatcd  tiie  fear- 
less candor  wliich  let  me  see  what  other  women 
in  her  position  might  have  had  reasons  for  con- 
cealing even  from  their  dearest  friends — perhaps 
because  I  felt,  in  my  own  heart  and  conscience, 
that,  in  her  place,  I  should  have  asked  the  same 
questions  and  had  the  same  thoughts.     All  I 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


89 


could  honestly  do  was  to  reply  that  I  had  not 
written  to  him  or  heard  from  him  lately,  and 
then  to  turn  the  conversation  to  less  dangerous  i 
topics. 

There  had  been  much  to  sadden  me  in  our  ] 
interview — my  first  confidential  interview  with 
her  since  her  return.  The  change  which  her 
marriage  has  produced  in  our  relations  toward 
each  other,  by  placing  a  forbidden  subject  be- 
tween us,  for  the  first  time  in  our  lives ;  the 
melancholy  conviction  of  the  dearth  of  all 
warmth  of  feeling,  of  all  close  sympathy,  be- 
tween her  husband  and  herself,  which  her  own 
unwilling  words  now  force  on  my  mind ;  the 
distressing  discovery  that  the  influence  of  that 
ill-fated  attachment  still  remains  (no  matter 
how  innocently,  how  harmlessly)  rooted  as  deep- 
ly as  ever  in  her  heart — all  these  are  disclosures 
to  sadden  any  woman  who  loves  her  as  dearly, 
and  feels  for  her  as  acutely,  as  I  do.  There  is 
only  one  consolation  to  set  against  them — a  con- 
solation that  ought  to  comfort  me,  and  that  does 
comfort  me.  All  the  graces  and  gentlenesses 
of  her  character — all  the  frank  aftection  of  her 
nature — all  the  sweet,  simple,  womanly  chai'ms 
which  used  to  make  her  the  darling  and  the.  de- 
light of  every  one  who  approached  her — have 
come  back  to  me  with  herself.  Of  my  other 
impressions  I  am  sometimes  a  little  inclined  to 
doubt.  Of  this  last,  best,  happiest  of  all  im- 
pressions I  grow  more  and  more  certain  every 
hour  in  the  day. 

Let  me  turn  now  from  her  to  her  traveling 
companions.  Her  husband  must  engage  my 
attention  first.  What  have  I  observed  in  Sir 
Pcrcival,  since  his  return,  to  improve  my  opin- 
ion of  him  ? 

I  can  hardly  say.  Small  vexations  and  an- 
noyances seem  to  have  beset  him  since  he  came 
back;  and  no  man,  under  those  circumstances, 
is  ever  presented  at  his  best.  He  looks,  as  I 
think,  thinner  than  he  was  when  he  left  En- 
gland. His  wearisome  cough  and  his  comfort- 
less restlessness  have  certainly  increased.  His 
manner — at  least,  his  manner  toward  me — is 
much  more  abrupt  than  it  used  to  be.  He 
gi'eeted  me  on  the  evening  of  his  return  with 
little  or  nothing  of  the  ceremony  and  civility  of 
former  times — no  polite  speeches  of  welcome — 
no  appearance  of  extraordinary  gratification  at 
seeing  me — nothing  but  a  short  shake  of  the 
hand,  and  a  sharp  "  How-d'ye-do,  Miss  Hal- 
combe  ? — glad  to  see  you  again."  He  seemed  to 
accept  me  as  one  of  the  necessary  fixtures  of 
Blackwater  Park ;  to  be  satisfied  at  finding  me 
established  in  my  proper  place ;  and  then  to 
pass  me  over  altogether. 

Most  men  show  something  of  their  disposi- 
tions in  their  own  houses,  which  they  have  con- 
cealed elsewhere  ;  and  Sir  Percival  has  already 
displayed  a  mania  for  order  and  regularity, 
which  is  quite  a  new  revelation  of  him,  so  far 
as  my  previous  knowledge  of  his  character  is 
concerned.  If  I  take  a  book  from  the  library 
and  leave  it  on  the  table,  he  follows  me  and 
puts  it  back  again.  If  I  rise  from  a  chair  and 
let  it  remain  where  I  have  been  sitting,  he  care- 
fully restores  it  to  its  proper  place  against  the 
wall.  He  picks  up  stray  flower-blossoms  from 
the  carpet  and  mutters  to  himself  as  discon- 
tentedly as  if  they  were  hot  cinders  burning 
holes  in  it;  and  he  storms  at  the  servants  if 


there  is  a  crease  in  the  table-cloth,  or  a  knife 
missing  from  its  place  at  the  dinner-table,  as 
fiercely  as  if  they  had  personally  insulted  him. 

I  have  already  referred  to  the  small  annoy- 
ances which  appear  to  have  troubled  him  since 
his  return.  Much  of  the  alteration  for  the 
worse  which  I  have  noticed  in  him  may  be  due 
to  these.  I  try  to  persuade  myself  that  it  is  so, 
because  I  am  anxious  not  to  be  disheartened 
already  about  the  future.  It  is  certainly  trying 
to  any  man's  temper  to  be  met  by  a  vexation 
the  moment  he  sets  foot  in  his  own  house  again, 
after  a  long  absence  ;  and  this  annoying  cir- 
cumstance did  really  happen  to  Sir  Percival  in 
my  presence.  On  the  evening  of  their  arrival 
the  housekeeper  followed  me  into  the  hall  to 
receive  her  master  and  mistress  and  their 
guests.  The  instant  he  saw  her,  Sir  Percival 
asked  if  any  one  had  called  lately.  The  house- 
keeper mentioned  to  him,  in  reply,  what  she 
had  previously  mentioned  to  me,  the  visit  of  the 
strange  gentleman  to  make  inquiries  about  the 
time  of  her  master's  return.  He  asked  imme- 
diately for  the  gentleman's  name.  No  name 
had  been  left.  The  gentleman's  business  ?  No 
business  had  been  mentioned.  What  was  the 
gentleman  like  ?  The  housekeeper  tried  to  de- 
scribe him,  but  failed  to  distinguish  the  name- 
less visitor  by  any  personal  peculiarity  which 
her  master  could  recognize.  Sir  Percival 
frowned,  stamped  angrily  on  the  floor,  and 
walked  on  into  the  house,  taking  no  notice  of 
any  body.  Why  he  should  have  been  so  dis- 
composed by  a  trifle  I  can  not  say — but  he  was 
seriously  discomposed,  beyond  all  doubt. 

Upon  the  whole,  it  will  be  best,  perhaps,  if  I 
abstain  from  forming  a  decisive  opinion  of  his 
manners,  language,  and  conduct  in  his  own 
house,  until  time  has  enabled  him  to  shake  off 
the  anxieties,  whatever  they  may  be,  which  now 
evidently  trouble  his  mind  in  secret.  I  will  turn 
over  to  a  new  page ;  and  my  pen  shall  let  Lau- 
ra's hi;sband  alone  for  the  present. 

The  two  guests  —  the  Count  and  Countess 
Fosco — come  next  in  my  catalogue.  I  will  dis- 
pose of  the  Countess  first,  so  as  to  have  done 
with  the  woman  as  soon  as  possible. 

Laura  was  certainly  not  chargeable  with  any 
exaggeration  in  writing  me  word  that  I  should 
hardly  recognize  her  aunt  again  when  we  met. 
Never  before  have  I  beheld  such  a  change  pro- 
duced in  a  woman  by  her  marriage  as  has  been 
produced  in  Madame  Fosco.  As  Eleanor  Fair- 
lie  (aged  seven-and-thirty),  she  was  alwav-s 
talking  pretentious  nonsense,  and  always  wor- 
n  ing  the  unfortunate  men  with  every  small  ex- 
action which  a  vain  and  foolish  woman  can  im- 
j)ose  on  long-suftering  male  humanity.  As  Ma- 
dame Fosco  (aged  three-and-forty),  she  sits  for 
hours  together  without  saying  a  word,  frozen  up 
in  the  strangest  manner  in  herself.  The  hid- 
eously ridiculous  love-locks  which  used  to  hang 
on  either  side  of  her  face  are  now  replaced  by 
stift"  little  rows  of  very  short  curls,  of  the  sort 
that  one  sees  in  old-fashioned  wigs.  A  plain 
matronly  cap  covers  her  head,  and  makes  her 
look,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  since  I  re- 
member her,  like  a  decent  woman.  Nobody 
(putting  her  husband  out  of  the  question,  of 
course)  now  sees  in  her  what  every  body  once 
saw — I  mean  the  structure  of  the  female  skele- 
ton, in  the  upper  regions  of  the  collar-bones  and 


90 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


the  shoulder-blades.  Clad  in  quiet  black  or 
gray  gowns,  made  high  round  the  throat — dress- 
es that  she  would  have  laughed  at,  or  screamed 
at,  as  the  whim  of  the  moment  inclined  her,  in 
her  maiden  days — she  sits  speechless  in  cor- 
ners ;  her  dry  white  hands  (so  dry  that  the 
pores  of  her  skin  look  chalky)  incessantly  en- 
gaged, either  in  monotonous  embroidery  work, 
or  in  rolling  up  endless  little  cigarettes  for  the 
Count's  own  particular  smoking.  On  the  few 
occasions  when  her  cold  blue  eyes  are  off  her 
work  they  are  generally  turned  on  her  hus- 
band, with  the  look  of  mute  submissive  inquiry 
which  we  are  all  familiar  with  in  the  eyes  of  a 
faithful  dog.  The  only  approach  to  an  inward 
thaw  which  I  have  yet  detected  under  her  out- 
er covering  of  icy  constraint  has  betrayed  it- 
self, once  or  twice,  in  the  form  of  a  suppressed 
tigerish  jealousy  of  any  woman  in  the  house 
(the  maids  included)  to  whom  the  Count  speaks, 
or  on  whom  he  looks,  with  any  thing  approach- 
ing to  s])ecial  interest  or  attention.  Except  in 
this  one  particular,  she  is  always,  morning, 
noon,  and  night,  in-doors  and  out,  fair  weather 
or  foul,  as  cold  as  a  statue,  and  as  impenetrable 
as  the  stone  out  of  which  it  is  cut.  For  the 
common  purposes  of  society  the  extraordinary 
change  thus  produced  in  her  is,  beyond  all 
doubt,  a  change  for  the  better,  seeing  that  it 
has  transformed  her  into  a  civil,  silent,  unob- 
trusive woman,  wlio  is  never  in  the  way.  IIow 
far  she  is  really  reformed  or  deteriorated  in  her 
secret  self  is  another  ([uestion.  I  have  once  or 
twice  seen  sudden  changes  of  expression  on 
her  pinched  lips,  and  heard  sudden  inflections 


of  tone  in  her  calm  voice,  which  have  led  me 
to  suspect  that  her  present  state  of  suppression 
may  have  sealed  up  something  dangerous  in  her 
nature,  which  used  to  evaporate  harmlessly  in 
the  freedom  of  her  former  life.  It  is  quite  pos- 
sible that  I  may  be  altogether  wrong  in  this  idea. 
My  own  impression,  however,  is,  that  I  am  right. 
Time  will  show. 

And  the  magician  who  has  ■nTought  this  won- 
derful transformation — the  foreign  husband  who 
has  tamed  this  once  wayward  Englishwoman  till 
her  own  relations  hardly  know  her  again — the 
Count  himself?     AVhat  of  the  Count ? 

This,  in  two  words  :  He  looks  like  a  man  who 
could  tame  any  thing.  If  he  had  married  a  ti- 
gress, instead  of  a  woman,  he  would  have  tamed 
the  tigress.  If  he  had  married  me,  I  should  have 
made  his  cigarettes  as  his  wife  does — I  should 
have  held  my  tongue  when  he  looked  at  me,  as 
she  holds  hers. 

I  am  almost  afraid  to  confess  it,  even  to  these 
secret  pages.  The  man  has  interested  me,  has 
attracted  me,  has  forced  me  to  like  him.  In 
two  short  days  he  has  made  his  way  straight 
into  my  favorable  estimation — and  how  he  has 
worked  the  miracle  is  more  than  I  can  tell. 

It  absolutely  startles  me,  now  he  is  in  my 
mind,  to  find  how  jdainly  I  see  him!  —  how 
much  more  plainly  than  I  see  Sir  Percival,  or 
Mr.  Fairlie,  or  Yv'alter  Hartright,  or  any  other 
absent  person  of  whom  I  think,  with  the  one 
exception  of  Laura  herself!  I  can  hear  his 
voice,  as  if  he  was  speaking  at  this  moment. 
I  know  what  his  conversation  was  yesterday  as 
well  as  if  I  was  hearing  it  now.  How  am  I  to 
describe  him?  There  are  peculiarities  in  his 
personal  ajipearance,  his  habits,  and  his  amuse- 
ments which  I  should  blame  in  the  boldest  terms, 
or  ridicule  in  the  most  merciless  manner,  if  I 
had  seen  them  in  another  man.  What  is  it 
that  makes  me  unable  to  blame  them  or  to  rid- 
icule them  in  him  ? 

For  example,  he  is  immensely  fat.  Before 
this  time  I  have  always  especially  disliked  cor- 
pulent humanity.  I  have  always  maintained 
that  the  popular  notion  of  connecting  excessive 
grossness  of  size  and  excessive  good-humor  as 
inseparable  allies  was  equivalent  to  declaring, 
either  that  no  jjeople  but  amiable  people  ever 
get  fat,  or  that  the  accidental  addition  of  so 
many  pounds  of  flesh  has  a  directly  favorable 
influence  over  the  disposition  of  the  person  on 
whose  body  they  accumulate.  I  have  invaria- 
bly combated  both  these  absurd  assertions  by 
rpioting  examijles  of  fat  people  who  were  as 
mean,  vicious,  and  cruel  as  the  leanest  and  the 
worst  of  their  neighbors,  I  have  asked  whether 
Henry  the  Eighth  was  an  amiable  character? 
whether  Pope  Alexander  the  Sixth  was  a  good 
man?  Whether  Mr.  Murderer  and  Mrs.  Mur- 
deress Manning  were  not  both  unusually  stout 
people  ?  Whether  hired  nurses,  proverbially 
as  cruel  a  set  of  women  as  are  to  be  found  in 
all  England,  were  not,  for  the  most  part,  also  as 
fat  a  set  of  women  as  are  to  be  found  in  all  En- 
gland? And  so  on,  through  dozens  of  other 
examples,  modern  and  ancient,  native  and  foi- 
cign,  high  and  low.  Holding  these  strong  opin- 
ions on  the  subject  with  might  and  main,  as  I 
do  at  this  moment,  here,  nevertheless,  is  Count 
Fosco,  as  fat  as  Henry  the  Eighth  himself,  es- 
tablished in  my  favor,  at  one  day's  notice,  with- 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


91 


out  let  or  hinderance  from  his  own  odious  corpu- 
lence.    JMarvelous  indeed ! 

Is  it  liis  face  that  has  recommended  him? 
It  may  be  his  face.  He  is  a  most  remarkable 
likeness,  on  a  large  scale,  of  the  Great  Napo- 
leon. His  features  have  Napoleon's  magnificent 
regularity :  his  expression  recalls  the  grandly 
calm,  immovable  power  of  the  Great  Soldier's 
face.  This  striking  resemblance  certainly  im- 
pressed me,  to  begin  with  ;  but  there  is  some- 
thing in  him  besides  the  resemblance  which  has 
impressed  me  more.  I  think  the  influence  I 
am  now  trying  to  find  is  in  his  eyes.  They  are 
the  most  unfathomable  gray  eyes  I  ever  saw ; 
and  they  have  at  times  a  cold,  clear,  beautiful, 
irresistible  glitter  in  them  which  forces  me  to 
look  at  him,  and  yet  causes  me  sensations,  when 
I  do  look,  which  I  would  rather  not  feel.  Oth- 
er parts  of  his  face  and  head  have  their  strange 
peculiarities.  His  complexion,  for  instance,  has 
a  singular  sallow-fairness,  so  much  at  variance 
with  the  dark-brown  color  of  his  hair  that  I 
suspect  the  hair  of  being  a  wig;  and  his  face, 
closely  shaven  all  over,  is  smoother  and  freer 
from  all  marks  and  wrinkles  than  mine,  though 
(according  to  Sir  Percival's  account  of  him)  he 
is  close  on  sixty  years  of  age.  But  these  are 
not  the  prominent  personal  characteristics  which 
distinguish  him,  to  my  mind,  from  all  the  other 
men  I  have  ever  seen.  The  marked  peculiar- 
ity which  singles  him  out  from  the  rank  and 
file  of  humanity  lies  entirely,  so  far  as  I  can 
tell  at  present,  in  the  extraordinary  expression 
and  extraordinary  power  of  liis  eyes. 

His  manner,  and  his  command  of  our  lan- 
guage, may  also  have  assisted  him,  in  some  de- 
gree, to  establish  himself  in  my  good  opinion. 
He  has  that  quiet  deference,  that  look  of  pleased, 
attentive  interest  in  listening  to  a  woman,  and 
that  secret  gentleness  in  his  voice,  in  speaking  to 
a  woman,  which,  say  what  we  may,  we  can  none 
of  us  resist.  Here,  too,  his  unusual  command 
of  the  English  language  necessaril}^  helps  him. 
I  had  often  heard  of  the  extraordinary  aptitude 
which  many  Italians  show  in  mastering  our 
strong,  hard  Northern  speech  ;  but,  until  I  saw 
Count  Fosco,  I  had  never  supposed  it  possible 
that  any  foreigner  could  have  spoken  English 
as  he  speaks  it.  There  are  times  when  it  is  al- 
most impossible  to  detect,  by  his  accent,  that  he 
is  not  a  countryman  of  our  own ;  and,  as  for 
fluency,  there  are  very  few  born  Englishmen 
who  can  talk  with  as  few  stoppages  and  repeti- 
tions as  the  Count.  He  may  construct  his  sen- 
tences, more  or  less,  in  the  foreign  way;  but  I 
.  have  never  yet  heard  him  use  a  wrong  expres- 
sion, or  hesitate  for  a  moment  in  his  choice  of 
a  word. 

All  the  smallest  characteristics  of  this  strange 
man  have  something  strikingly  original  and  per- 
plexingly  contradictory  in  them.  Fat  as  he  is, 
and  old  as  he  is,  his  movements  are  astonish- 
ingly light  and  easy.  He  is  as  noiseless  in  a 
room  as  any  of  us  women ;  and,  more  than  that, 
with  all  his  look  of  unmistakable  mental  firm- 
ness and  powei",  he  is  as  nervously  sensitive  as 
the  weakest  of  us.  He  starts  at  chance  noises 
as  inveterately  as  Laura  herself.  He  winced 
and  shuddered  yesterday  when  Sir  Percival  beat 
one  of  the  spaniels,  so  that  I  felt  ashamed  of 
my  own  want  of  tenderness  and  sensibility  by 
comparison  with  the  Count. 


The  relation  of  this  last  incident  reminds  me 
of  one  of  his  most  curious  peculiarities,  which  I 
have  not  yet  mentioned  —  his  extraordinary 
fondness  for  pet  animals.  Some  of  these  he 
has  left  on  the  Continent,  but  he  has  brought 
with  him  to  this  house  a  cockatoo,  two  canaiy- 
birds,  and  a  whole  family  of  white  mice.  He 
attends  to  all  the  necessities  of  these  strange  fa- 
vorites himself,  and  he  has  taught  the  creatures 
to  be  surprisingly  fond  of  him,  and  familiar  with 
him.  Tlie  cockatoo,  a  most  vicious  and  treach- 
erous bird  toward  every  one  else,  absolutely 
seems  to  love  him.  When  he  lets  it  out  of  its 
cage  it  hops  on  to  his  knee,  and  claws  its  way 
up  his  great  big  body,  and  rubs  its  top-knot 
against  his  sallow  double  chin  in  the  most  ca- 
ressing manner  imaginable.  He  has  only  to  set 
the  doors  of  the  canaries'  cages  open,  and  to  call 
to  them ;  and  the  pretty  little  cleverly-trained 
creatures  perch  fearlessly  on  his  hand,  mount 
his  fat  outstretched  fingers  one  by  one,  when  he 
tells  them  to  "go  up  stairs,"  and  sing  together 
as  if  they  would  burst  their  throats  with  delight, 
when  they  get  to  the  top  finger.  His  white  mice 
live  in  a  little  pagoda  of  gayly-])ainted  wire-work, 
designed  and  made  by  himself.  They  are  al- 
most as  tame  as  the  canaries,  and  they  are  per- 
petually let  out,  like  the  canaries.  They  crawl 
all  over  him,  popping  in  and  out  of  his  waist- 
coat, and  sitting  in  couples,  white  as  snow,  on 
his  capacious  shoulders.  He  seems  to  be  even 
fonder  of  his  mice  than  of  his  other  pets — smiles 
at  them,  and  kisses  them,  and  calls  them  by  all 
sorts  of  endearing  names.  If  it  be  possible  to 
suppose  an  Englishman  with  any  taste  for  such 
childish  interests  and  amusements  as  these,  that 
Englishman  would  certainly  feel  rather  ashamed 
of  them,  and  would  be  anxious  to  apologize  for 
them  in  the  company  of  grown-up  people.  But 
the  Count,  apparently,  sees  nothing  ridiculous 
in  tlie  amazing  contrast  between  his  colossal 
self  and  his  frail  little  pets.  He  would  blandly 
kiss  his  white  mice,  and  twitter  to  his  canary- 
birds  amidst  an  assembly  of  English  fox-hunt- 
ers, and  would  only  pity  them  as  barbarians 
when  they  were  all  laughing  their  loudest  at 
him. 

It  seems  hardly  credible,  while  I  am  writing 
it  down,  but  it  is  certainly  true,  that  this  same 
man,  who  has  all  the  fondness  of  an  old  maid 
for  his  cockatoo,  and  all  the  small  dexterities  of 
an  organ-boy  in  managing  his  white  mice,  can 
talk,  when  any  tiling  happens  to  rouse  him,  with 
a  daring  independence  of  thought,  a  knowledge 
of  books  in  every  language,  and  an  experience 
of  society  in  half  the  capitals  of  Europe,  which 
would  make  him  the  prominent  personage  of 
any  assembly  in  the  civilized  world.  This  trainer 
of  canary-birds,  this  architect  of  a  pagoda  for 
white  mice,  is  (as  Sir  Percival  himself  has  told 
me)  one  of  the  first  experimental  chemists  living, 
and  has  discovered,  among  other  wonderful  in- 
ventions, a  means  of  petrifying  the  body  after 
death,  so  as  to  preserve  it,  as  hard  as  marble,  to 
the  end  of  time.  This  fat,  indolent,  elderly 
man,  whose  nerves  are  so  finely  strung  that  ha 
starts  at  chance  noises,  and  winces  when  he. 
sees  a  house-spaniel  get  a  whipping,  went  into 
the  stable-yard,  on  the  morning  after  his  arrival, 
and  put  his  hand  on  the  head  of  a  chained  blood- 
hound— a  beast  so  savage  that  the  very  groom 
who  feeds  him  keeps  out  of  his  reach.     His  wife 


92 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


COUNT   FOSCO    AND   THE    DOG. 


and  I  were  present,  and  I  shall  not  soon  forget 
the  scene  that  followed,  short  as  it  was. 

"Mind  that  dog.  Sir,"  said  the  ftroom;  "he 
flies  at  every  body !"  "Hedoesthat,  myfriend," 
replied  the  Count,  quietly,  "  because  every  body 
is  afraid  of  him.  Let  us  see  if  he  flies  at  me." 
And  he  laid  his  plump,  yellow-white  fingers,  on 
which  the  canary-birds  had  been  perching  ten 
minutes  before,  upon  the  formidable  brute's 
head,  and  looked  him  straight  in  the  eyes. 
"You  big  dogs  are  all  cowards,"  he  said,  ad- 
dressing the  animal  contemptuously,  with  his 
face  and  the  dog's  within  an  inch  of  each  other. 
"  You  would  kill  a  poor  cat,  you  infern.al  coward. 
You  would  fly  at  a  starving  beggar,  you  infernal 
coward.  Any  thing  that  you  can  surprise  un- 
awares— any  tiling  that  is  afraid  of  your  big  body, 
and  your  wicked  white  teeth,  and  your  slobber- 
ing, blood-thirsty  mouth,  is  the  thing  you  like  to 
fly  at.  You  could  throttle  me  at  this  moment, 
you  mean,  miserable  bully ;  and  you  daren't  so 
much  as  look  me  in  tlie  face,  because  I'm  not 
afraid  of  you.  Will  you  think  better  of  it,  and 
try  your  teeth  in  my  fat  neck  ?  Bah !  not  you !" 
He  turned  away,  laugliing  at  the  astonishment 
of  the  men  in  the  yard;  and  tlu;  dog  crept  l)ack 
meekly  to  his  kennel.  "Ah!  my  nice  waist- 
coat!" he  said,  pathetically.    "I  am  sorry  I  came 


here.  Some  of  that  brute's  slobber  has  got  on 
mj'  pretty  clean  waistcoat."  Those  words  express 
another  of  his  incomprehensible  oddities.  He 
is  as  fond  of  fine  clothes  as  the  vei'iest  fool  in  ex- 
istence ;  and  has  appeared  in  four  magnificent 
waistcoats  already — all  of  light  garish  colors, 
and  all  immensely  large  even  for  him — in  the 
two  days  of  his  residence  at  Blackwater  Park. 

His  tact  and  cleverness  in  small  things  are 
quite  as  noticeable  as  the  singular  inconsisten- 
cies in  his  character,  and  the  childish  triviality 
of  his  ordinar\'  tastes  and  pursuits. 

I  can  see  already  that  he  means  to  live  on 
excellent  terms  with  all  of  us  during  the  period 
of  his  sojourn  in  this  place.  He  has  evidently 
discovered  that  Laura  secretly  dislikes  him  (she 
confessed  as  much  to  me,  when  I  pressed  her  on 
the  subject) — but  he  has  also  found  out  that  she 
is  extravagantly  fond  of  flowers.  Whenever  she 
wants  a  nosegay  he  has  got  one  to  give  her, 
gathered  and  arranged  by  himself;  and,  greatly 
to  my  amusement,  he  is  always  cunningly  pro- 
vided with  a  (lu]i]icatc,  comjiosed  of  exactly  the 
s.ame  flowers,  grou])cd  in  exactly  the  same  way, 
to  aj)pcase  his  icily  jealous  wife,  before  she  can 
so  much  as  think  lierself  aggrieved.  His  man- 
agement of  the  Countess  (in  jniblic)  is  a  sight  to 
see.     He  bows  to  her;  he  habitually  addresses 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


93 


her  as  "my  anp;el;"  he  carries  his  canaries  to 
pay  her  little  visits  on  his  fingers,  and  to  sing 
to  her ;  he  kisses  her  hand,  wlien  she  gives  him 
his  cigarettes ;  he  presents  her  with  sugar-plums 
in  return,  which  he  puts  into  her  mouth  play- 
fully, from  a  box  in  his  pocket.  The  rod  of  iron 
with  which  he  rules  her  never  appears  in  com- 
pany— it  is  a  private  rod,  and  is  always  kept  up 
stairs. 

His  method  of  recommending  himself  to  me 
is  entirely  difterent.  He  has  discovered  (Heav- 
en only  knows  how)  that  ready-made  sentiment 
is  thrown  away  on  my  blunt,  matter-of-fact  na- 
ture. And  he  flatters  my  vanit\',  by  talking  to 
me  as  seriously  and  sensibly  as  if  I  was  a  man. 
Yes !  I  can  find  him  out  when  I  am  away  from 
him  ;  I  know  he  flatters  my  vanity,  when  I  think 
of  him  up  here,  in  my  own  room — and  yet,  when 
I  go  down  stairs,  and  get  into  his  company  again, 
he  will  blind  me  again,  and  I  shall  be  flattered 
again,  just  as  if  I  had  never  found  him  out  at 
all!  He  can  manage  me  as  he  manages  his 
wife  and  Laura,  as  he  managed  tlie  blood-hound 
in  the  stable-yard,  as  he  manages  Sir  Percival 
himself,  every  hour  in  the  day.  "My  good  Per- 
cival !  how  I  like  your  rough  English  humor !" — 
"My  good  Percival!  how  I  enjoy  your  solid 
English  sense!"  He  puts  the  rudest  remarks 
Sir  Percival  can  make  on  his  effeminate  tastes 
and  amusements  quietly  away  from  him  in  that 
manner — always  calling  the  baronet  by  his  Chris- 
tian name ;  smiling  at  him  with  the  calmest  su- 
periority ;  patting  him  on  the  shoulder ;  and 
bearing  with  him  benignantly,  as  a  good-humor- 
ed father  bears  with  a  wayward  son.  * 

The  interest  which  I  really  can  not  help  feel- 
ing in  this  strangely  original  man  has  led  me 
to  question  Sir  Percival  about  his  past  life.  Sir 
Percival  either  knows  little,  or  will  tell  me  little, 
about  it.  He  and  the  Count  first  met,  many 
years  ago,  at  Kome,  under  the  dangerous  cir- 
cumstances to  which  I  have  alluded  elsewhere. 
Since  that  time  they  had  been  perpetually  to- 
gether in  London,  in  Paris,  and  in  Vienna — but 
never  in  Italy  again ;  the  Count  having,  oddly 
enough,  not  crossed  the  frontiers  of  his  native 
country  for  years  past.  Perhaps  he  has  been 
made  the  victim  of  some  political  persecution  ? 
At  all  events,  he  seems  to  be  patriotically  anx- 
ious not  to  lose  sight  of  any  of  his  own  country- 
men wlio  may  happen  to  be  in  England.  Ou 
the  evening  of  his  arrival  he  asked  how  far  we 
were  from  the  nearest  town,  and  whether  we 
knew  of  any  Italian  gentlemen  who  might  hap- 
pen to  be  settled  there.  He  is  certainly  in  cor- 
respondence with  people  on  the  Continent,  for 
his  letters  have  all  sorts  of  odd  stamps  on  them ; 
and  I  saw  one  for  him  this  morning,  waiting  in 
his  place  at  the  breakfast-table,  with  a  huge 
official-looking  seal  on  it,"  Perhaps  he  is  in  cor- 
respondence with  his  government?  And  yet 
that  is  hardly  to  be  reconciled  either  with  my 
other  idea  that  he  may  be  a  political  exile. 

How  much  I  seem  to  have  written  about 
Count  Fosco!  And  what  does  it  all  amount 
to? — as  poor,  dear  Mr.  Gilmorc  would  ask,  in 
his  impenetrable  business-like  way.  I  can  only 
repeat  that  I  do  assuredly  feel,  even  on  this 
short  acquaintance,  a  strange,  half-willing,  half- 
unwilling  liking  for  the  Count.  He  seems  to 
have  established  over  me  the  same  sort  of  as- 
cendency which  he  has  evidently  gained  over 


Sir  Percival.  Free,  and  even  rude,  as  he  may 
occasionally  be  in  his  manner  toward  his  fat 
friend,  Sir  Percival  is  nevertheless  afraid,  as  I 
can  plainly  see,  of  giving  any  serious  offense  to 
the  Count.  I  wonder  whether  I  am  afraid,  too? 
I  certainly  never  saw  a  man,  in  all  my  experi- 
ence, whom  I  should  be  so  sorry  to  have  for  an 
enemy.  Is  this  because  I  like  him,  or  because 
I  am  afraid  of  him  ?  Clii  sa  ? — as  Count  Fosco 
might  say  in  his  own  language.     Who  knows  ? 

2d. — Something  to  chronicle  to-day  besides 
my  own  ideas  and  impressions.  A  visitor  has 
arrived — quite  unknown  to  Laura  and  to  me ; 
and,  apparently,  quite  unexpected  by  Sir  Perci- 
val. 

We  were  all  at  lunch,  in  the  room  with  the 
new  French  windows  that  open  upon  the  veran- 
da, and  the  Count  (wlio  devours  pastry  as  I 
have  never  yet  seen  it  devoured  by  any  human 
beings  but  girls  at  boarding-schools)  had  just 
amused  us  by  asking  gravely  for  his  fourtli  tart, 
when  the  servant  entered  to  announce  the  visitor. 

"Mr.  Merriman  has  just  come.  Sir  Percival, 
and  wishes  to  see  you  immediately." 

Sir  Percival  started,  and  looked  at  the  man 
with  an  expression  of  angry  alarm  which  si- 
lenced us  all. 

"Mr.  Merriman?"  he  repeated,  as  if  he 
thought  his  own  ears  must  have  deceived  him. 

"Yes,  Sir  Percival:  Mr.  Merriman,  from 
London." 

"Where  is  he?" 

"In  the  library.  Sir  Percival." 

He  left  the  table  the  instant  the  last  answer 
was  given,  and  hurried  out  of  the  room  without 
saying  a  word  to  any  of  us. 

"  Who  is  Mr.  Merriman  ?"  asked  Laura,  ap- 
pealing to  me. 

"  I  have  not  the  least  idea,"  was  all  I  could 
say  in  reply. 

The  Count  had  finished  his  fourth  tart,  and 
had  gone  to  a  side-table  to  look  after  his  vicious 
cockatoo.  He  turned  round  to  us,  with  the  bii'd 
perched  on  his  shoulder. 

"Mr.  Merriman  is  Sir  Percival's  solicitor," 
he  said,  quietly. 

Sir  Percival's  solicitor.  It  Avas  a  perfectly 
straightforward  answer  to  Laura's  question ;  and 
yet,  under  the  circumstances,  it  was  not  satis- 
factory. If  Mr.  Merriman  had  been  specially 
sent  for  by  his  client  there  would  have  been 
nothing  very  wonderful  in  his  leaving  town  to 
obey  the  summons.  But  when  a  lawyer  travels 
from  London  to  Hampshii-e  without  being  sent 
for,  and  when  his  arrival  at  a  gentleman's  house 
seriously  startles  the  gentleman  himself,  it  may 
be  safely  taken  for  granted  that  the  legal  visitor 
is  the  bearer  of  some  very  important  and  very 
unexpected  news — news  which  may  be  either 
very  good  or  very  bad,  but  which  can  not,  iu 
either  case,  be  of  the  common,  everyday  kind. 

Laura  and  I  sat  silent  at  the  table  for  a  quar- 
ter of  an  hour  or  more,  wondering  uneasily  what 
had  happened,  and  waiting  for  the  chance  of  Sir 
Percival's  speedy  return.  There  were  no  signs 
of  his  return,  and  we  rose  to  leave  the  room. 

The  Count,  attentive  as  usual,  advanced  from 
the  corner  in  which  he  had  been  feeding  his 
cockatoo,  with  the  bird  still  perched  on  his 
shoulder,  and  opened  the  door  for  us.  Laura 
and  Madame  Fosco  went  out  first.     Just  as  I 


94 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


was  on  the  point  of  following  them  he  made  a 
sign  with  his  hand,  and  spoke  to  me,  before  I 
passed  him,  in  the  oddest  manner. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  quietly  answering;  the  unex- 
pressed idea  at  tliat  moment  in  my  mind,  as  if  I 
had  plainly  confided  it  to  him  in  so  many  words 
— "  yes.  Miss  Halcombe ;  something  has  hap- 
pened." 

I  was  on  the  point  of  answering,  "  I  never 
said  so."  But  the  vicious  cockatoo  ruffled  his 
clipped  wings,  and  gave  a  screech  that  set  all 
my  nei'ves  on  edge  in  an  instant,  and  made  me 
only  too  glad  to  get  out  of  the  room. 

I  joined  Laura  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs.  The 
thought  in  her  mind  was  the  same  as  the 
thought  in  mine,  which  Count  Fosco  had  sur- 
prised ;  and,  when  she  spoke,  her  words  were 
almost  the  echo  of  his.  She  too  said  to  me, 
secretly,  that  she  was  afraid  something  had  hap- 
pened. 

****** 

Jubj  2. — I  have  a  few  lines  more  to  add  to 
this  day's  entry  before  I  go  to  bed  to-night. 

About  two  liours  after  Sir  Percival  rose  from 
the  luncheon-table  to  receive  his  solicitor,  Mr. 
Merriman,  in  the  library,  I  left  my  room,  alone, 
to  take  a  walk  in  the  plantations.  Just  as  I 
was  at  the  end  of  the  landing,  the  library  door 
opened,  and  the  two  gentlemen  came  out. 
Thinking  it  best  not  to  disturb  them  by  appear- 
ing on  the  stairs,  I  resolved  to  defer  going  down 
till  they  had  crossed  the  hall.  Although  they 
spoke  to  each  other  in  guarded  tones,  their 
words  were  pronounced  with  sufficient  distinct- 
ness of  utterance  to  reach  my  ears. 

"  Make  your  mind  easy.  Sir  Percival,"  I 
heard  the  lawyer  say.  "It  all  rests  with  Lady 
Glyde." 

I  had  turned  to  go  back  to  my  own  room  for 
a  minute  or  two  ;  but  the  sound  of  Laura's 
name  on  the  lijis  of  a  stranger  stopped  me  in- 
stantly. I  dare  say  it  was  very  wrong  and  very 
discreditable  to  listen — but  whei-e  is  the  woman, 
in  the  whole  range  of  our  sex,  who  can  regu- 
late her  actions  by  the  abstract  principles  of  hon- 
or, when  those  principles  jjoint  one  way,  and 
when  her  affections,  and  the  interests  which 
grow  out  of  them,  point  the  other? 

I  listened;  and,  under  similar  circumstances, 
I  would  listen  again — yes !  with  my  ear  at  the 
keyhole,  if  I  could  not  possibly  manage  it  in  any 
other  way. 

"You  quite  understand.  Sir  Percival?"  the 
lawyer  went  on.  "Lady  Glyde  is  to  sign  her 
name  in  the  presence  of  a  witness — or  of  two 
witnesses,  if  you  wish  to  be  particularly  careful 
— and  is  then  to  put  her  finger  on  the  seal,  and 
say,  '  I  deliver  this  as  my  act  and  deed.'  If  that 
is  done  in  a  week's  time,  the  arrangement  will 
be  perfectly  successful,  and  the  anxiety  will  bo 
nil  over.     If  not — " 

"  Wliat  do  you  mean  by  'if  not?'"  asked  Sir 
Percival,  angrily.  "  If  the  thing  must  be  done, 
it  shall  be  done.  I  promise  you  that,  Merri- 
man." 

"  Just  so.  Sir  Percival — ^jnst  so ;  but  there  are 
two  alternatives  in  all  transactions ;  and  we  law- 
yers like  to  look  both  of  them  in  the  face  bold- 
ly. If  through  any  extraordinary  circumstance 
the  arrangement  should  not  be  made,  I  think  I 
may  be  able  to  get  the  parties  to  accept  bills 


at  three  months.     But  how  the  money  is  to  be 
raised  when  the  bills  fall  due — " 

"Damn  the  bills!  The  money  is  only  to  be 
got  in  one  way ;  and  in  that  way,  I  tell  you 
again,  it  shall  be  got.  Take  a  glass  of  wine, 
Merriman,  before  you  go." 

"Much  obliged.  Sir  Percival;  I  have  not  a 
moment  to  lose,  if  I  am  to  catch  the  up-train. 
You  will  let  me  know  as  soon  as  the  arrange- 
ment is  complete?  and  you  will  not  forget  the 
caution  I  recommended — " 

"Of  course  I  won't.  There's  the  dog-cart  at 
the  door  for  you.  Jump  in.  My  groom  will  get 
you  to  the  station  in  no  time.  Benjamin,  drive 
like  mad  !  If  Mr.  Merriman  misses  the  train, 
you  lose  your  place.  Hold  fast,  Slerriman,  and 
if  you  are  upset,  trust  to  the  devil  to  save  his 
own." — With  that  parting  benediction  the  baro- 
net turned  about  and  walked  back  to  the  libraiy. 

I  had  not  heard  much ;  but  the  little  that 
had  reached  my  ears  was  enough  to  make  me 
feel  uneasy.  The  "  something"  that  "  had  hap- 
pened" was  but  too  plainly  a  serious  money 
embarrassment ;  and  Sir  Percival's  relief  from 
it  depended  upon  Laura.  The  prospect  of  seeing 
her  involved  in  her  husband's  secret  difficulties 
filled  me  with  dismay,  exaggerated,  no  doubt, 
by  my  ignorance  of  business  and  my  settled 
distrust  of  Sir  Percival.  Instead  of  going  out, 
as  I  had  proposed,  I  went  back  immediately  to 
Laura's  room  to  tell  her  what  I  had  heard. 

She  received  my  bad  news  so  composedly  as 
to  surprise  me.  She  evidently  knows  more  of 
her  husband's  character  and  her  husband's  em- 
barrassments than  I  have  suspected  up  to  this 
time. 

"I  feared  as  miTch,"she  said,  "when  I  heard 
of  that  strange  gentleman  who  called,  and  de- 
clined to  leave  his  name." 

"Who  do  you  think  the  gentleman  was, 
then  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Some  person  who  has  heavy  claims  on  Sir 
Percival,"  she  answered;  "and  who  has  been 
the  cause  of  Mr.  IMerriman's  visit  here  to-day." 

"Do  you  know  any  thing  about  those  claims?" 

"  No  ;  I  know  no  particulars." 

"You  will  sign  nothing,  Laura,  without  first 
looking  at  it  ?" 

"Certainly  not,  Marian.  Whatever  I  can 
harmlessly  and  honestly  do  to  help  him  I  will 
do — for  the  sake  of  making  your  life  and  mine, 
love,  as  easy  and  as  happy  as  possible.  But  I 
will  do  nothing  ignorantly  which  we  might  one 
day  have  reason  to  feel  ashamed  of.  Let  us  say 
no  more  about  it  now.  You  have  got  your  hat 
on — supjjose  we  go  and  dream  away  the  after- 
noon in  the  grounds?" 

On  leaving  the  house  we  directed  our  steps 
to  the  nearest  shade.  As  we  passed  an  open 
space  among  the  trees  in  front  of  the  house 
there  was  Count  Fosco,  slowly  walking  back- 
ward and  forward  on  the  grass,  sunning  him- 
self in  the  full  blaze  of  the  hot  July  afternoon. 
He  had  a  broad  straw-hat  on,  with  a  violet- 
colored  ribbon  round  it.  A  blue  blouse,  with 
profuse  white  fancy-work  over  the  bosom,  cov- 
ered Ids  ])rodigious  body,  and  was  girt  about 
the  place  where  his  waist  might  once  have  been 
with  a  broad  scarlet  leather  belt.  Nankeen 
trowsers,  displaying  more  white  fancy-work  over 
the  ankles,  and  i)urple  morocco  slippers  adorned 
bis  lower  extremities.    He  was  singing  Figaro's 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


95 


"figaeo  qua!  figako  la!"  etc. 


famous  song  in  the  Barber  of  Seville,  with  that 
crisply  fluent  vocalization  which  is  never  heard 
from  any  other  than  an  Italian  throat ;  accom- 
panying himself  on  the  concertina,  which  he 
played  with  ecstatic  throwings-up  of  his  arms, 
and  graceful  twistings  and  turnings  of  his  head, 
like  a  fat  St.  Cecilia  masquerading  in  male  at- 
tire. "  Figaro  qua !  Figaro  la !  Figaro  su !  Fi- 
garo giu!"  sang  the  Count,  jauntily  tossing  up 
the  concertina  at  arm's-length,  and  bowing  to 
us,  on  one  side  of  the  instrument,  with  the  airy 
gi'ace  and  elegance  of  Figaro  himself  at  twenty 
years  of  age. 

"  Take  my  word  for  it,  Laura,  that  man  knows 
something  of  Sir  Percival's  embarrassments,"  I 
said,  as  we  returned  the  Count's  salutation  from 
a  safe  distance. 

"What  makes  you  think  that?"  she  asked. 

"How  should  he  have  known,  otherwise,  that 
Mr.  Merriman  was  Sir  Percival's  solicitor?"  I 
rejoined.  "  Besides,  when  I  followed  you  out  of 
the  luncheon-room,  he  told  mc,  without  a  single 
word  of  inquiry  on  my  part,  that  something  had 
happened.  Depend  upon  it,  he  knows  more 
than  we  do." 

"Don't  ask  him  any  questions,  if  he  does. 
Don't  take  him  into  our  confidence !" 

"  You  seem  to  dislike  him,  Laura,  in  a  very 


determined  manner.  What  has  he  said  or  done 
to  justify  you  ?" 

"  Nothing,  Marian.  On  the  contrary,  he  was 
all  kindness  and  attention  on  our  journey  home, 
and  he  several  times  checked  Sir  Percival's  out- 
breaks of  temper  in  the  most  considerate  man- 
ner toward  me.  Perhaps  I  dislike  him  because 
he  has  so  much  more  power  over  my  husband 
than  I  have.  Perhaps  it  hurts  my  pride  to  be 
under  any  obligations  to  his  interference.  All 
I  know  is,  that  I  do  dislike  him." 

The  rest  of  the  day  and  the  evening  passed 
quietly  enough.  The  Count  and  I  played  at 
chess.  For  the  first  two  games  he  politely  al- 
lowed me  to  conquer  him ;  and  then,  when  he 
saw  that  I  had  found  him  out,  begged  my  par- 
don, and,  at  the  third  game,  checkmated  me  in 
ten  minutes.  SirPercival  never  once  referred, 
all  through  the  evening,  to  the  lawyer's  visit. 
But  either  that  event,  or  something  else,  had 
produced  a  singular  alteration  for  the  better  in 
him.  He  was  as  polite  and  agreeable  to  all  of 
us  as  he  used  to  be  in  the  days  of  liis  probation 
at  Limmeridge ;  and  he  was  so  amazingly  atten- 
tive and  kind  to  his  wife  that  even  icy  Madame 
Fosco  was  roused  into  looking  at  him  with  a 
grave  surprise.  What  does  this  mean  ?  I  think 
I  can  guess ;  I  am  afraid  Laura  can  guess ;  and 


96 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


I  am  quite  sure  Count  Fosco  knows.     I  caught ' 
Sir  Percival  looking  at  him  for  approval  more 
than  once  in  the  course  of  the  evening. 

3d.  A  day  of  events.  I  most  fervently  hope 
and  pray  I  may  not  have  to  add,  a  day  of  dis- 
asters as  well.  1 

Sir  Percival  was  as  silent  at  breakfast  as  he  j 
had  been  the  evening  before  on  the  subject  of 
the   mysterious  "  arrangement"  (as  the  lawyer 
called  it)  which  is  hanging  over  our  heads.     An  : 
hour  afterward,  however,  he  suddenly  entered  ! 
the  morning-room,  where  his  wife  and  I  were 
waiting,  with  our  hats  on,  for  Madame  Fosco  to  ! 
join  us,  and  inquired  for  the  Count. 

"We  expect  to  see  him  here  directly,"  I 
said. 

"The  fact  is,"  Sir  Percival  went  on,  walking 
nervously  about  the  room,  "I  want  Fosco  and 
his  wife  in  the  library,  for  a  mere  business  for- 
mality ;  and  I  want  you  there,  Laura,  for  a 
minute,  too."  He  stopped,  and  appeared  to  no- 
tice, for  the  first  time,  that  we  were  in  our  walk- 
ing costume.  "Have  you  just  come  in?"  he 
asked,  "  or  were  you  just  going  out  ?" 

"We  were  all  thinking  of  going  to  the  lake 
this  morning,"  said  Laura.  "But  if  you- have 
any  other  arrangement  to  propose — ■" 

"No,  no,"  he  answered,  hastily.  "My  ar- 
rangement can  wait.  After  lunch  will  do  as 
well  for  it  as  after  breakfast.  All  going  to  the 
lake,  eh  ?  A  good  idea.  Let's  have  an  idle 
morning;  I'll  be  one  of  the  party." 

There  was  no  mistaking  his  manner,  even  if 
it  had  been  possible  to  mistake  the  uncharac- 
teristic readiness  which  his  words  expressed,  to 
submit  his  own  plans  and  projects  to  the  con- 
venience of  others.  He  was  evidently  relieved 
at  finding  an  excuse  for  delaying  the  business 
formality  in  the  library,  to  which  his  own  words 
had  referred.  My  heart  sank  within  me  as  I 
drew  the  inevitable  inference. 

The  Count  and  his  wife  joined  us  at  that 
moment.  The  lady  had  her  husband's  embroid- 
ered tobacco-pouch,  and  her  store  of  paper  in 
her  hand  for  the  manufacture  of  the  eternal 
cigarettes.  The  gentleman,  dressed,  as  usual, 
in  his  blouse  and  straw-hat,  carried  the  gay 
little  pagoda-cage,  with  his  darling  white  mice 
in  it,  and  smiled  on  them,  and  on  us,  with  a 
bland  amiability  which  it  was  impossible  to  re- 
sist. 

"  With  your  kind  pennission,"  said  the  Count, 
"I  will  take  my  small  family,  here — my  poor- 
little-harmless-pretty-Mouseys,  out  for  an  airing 
along  with  us.  There  are  dogs  about  the  house, 
and  shall  I  leave  my  forlorn  white  children  at 
the  mercies  of  the  dogs?     Ah,  never!" 

He  chirruped  paternally  at  his  small  white 
children  through  the  bars  of  the  pagoda;  and  we 
all  left  the  house  for  the  lake. 

In  the  ])lantation  Sir  Percival  strayed  away 
from  us.  It  seems  to  be  part  of  his  restless  dis- 
position always  to  separate  himself  from  his 
companions  on  these  occasions,  and  always  to 
occupy  himself,  when  he  is  alone,  in  cutting  new 
walking-sticks  for  his  own  use.  TJie  mere  act 
of  cutting  and  lopping,  at  hazard,  appears  to 
please  him.  He  has  filled  the  house  with  walk- 
ing-sticks of  his  own  making,  not  one  of  which 
he  ever  takes  up  for  a  second  time.  When  they 
liave  been  once  used,  his  interest  in  them  is  ail 


exhausted,  and  he  thinks  of  nothing  but  going 
on  and  making  more. 

At  the  old  boat-house  he  joined  us  again.  I 
will  put  down  the  conversation  that  ensued,  when 
we  were  all  settled  in  our  places,  exactly  as  it 
passed.  It  is  an  important  conversation,  so  far 
as  I  am  concerned,  for  it  has  seriously  disposed 
me  to  distrust  the  influence  which  Count  Fosco 
has  exercised  over  my  thoughts  and  feelings, 
and  to  resist  it,  for  the  future,  as  resolutely  as 
I  can. 

The  boat-house  was  large  enough  to  hold  ns 
all ;  but  Sir  Percival  remained  outside,  trim- 
ming the  last  new  stick  with  his  pocket-axe. 
We  three  women  found  plenty  of  room  on 
the  large  seat.  Laura  took  her  work,  and  Ma- 
dame Fosco  began  her  cigarettes.  I,  as  usual, 
had  nothing  to  do.  My  hands  always  were,  and 
always  will  be,  as  awkward  as  a  man's.  The 
Count  good-humoredly  took  a  stool,  many  sizes 
too  small  for  him,  and  balanced  himself  on  it 
with  his  back  against  the  side  of  the  shed,  which 
creaked  and  groaned  under  his  weight.  He  put 
the  pagoda  cage  on  his  lap,  and  let  out  the  mice 
to  crawl  over  him  as  usual.  They  are  pretty, 
innocent-looking  little  creatures  ;  but  the  sight 
of  them  creeping  about  a  man's  body  is,  for 
some  reason,  not  pleasant  to  me.  It  excites  a 
strange,  responsive  creeping  in  my  own  neiTes ; 
and  suggests  hideous  ideas  of  men  dying  in 
prison,  with  the  crawling  creatures  of  the  dun- 
geon preying  on  them  undisturbed. 

The  morning  was  windy  and  cloud}';  and  the 
rapid  alternations  of  shadow  and  sunlight  over 
the  waste  of  the  lake  made  the  view  look  doubly 
wild,  weird,  and  gloomy. 

"  Some  people  call  that  picturesque,"  said 
Sir  Percival,  pointing  over  the  wide  prospect 
with  his  half-finished  walking-stick.  "  I  call  it 
a  blot  on  a  gentleman's  property.  In  my  great- 
grandfather's time  the  lake  flowed  to  this  place. 
Look  at  it  now !  It  is  not  four  feet  deep  any 
where,  and  it  is  all  puddles  and  pools.  I  wish 
I  could  aftbrd  to  drain  it,  and  plant  it  all  over. 
My  bailiff  (a  superstitious  idiot)  says  he  is  quite 
sure  the  lake  has  a  curse  on  it,  like  the  Dead 
Sea.  AVhat  do  you  think,  Fosco?  It  looks  just 
the  place  for  a  murder,  doesn't  it  ?" 

"  My  good  Percival !"  remonstrated  the  Count. 
"  What  is  your  solid  English  sense  thinking  of? 
The  water  is  too  shallow  to  hide  the  body  ;  and 
there  is  sand  every  where  to  print  off"  tlie  mur- 
derer's footsteps.  It  is,  upon  the  whole,  the 
very  worst  place  for  a  murder  that  I  ever  set  my 
eyes  on." 

"Humbug!"  said  Sir  Percival,  cutting  away 
fiercely  at  his  stick.  "  You  know  what  I  mean. 
The  dreary  scenery — the  lonely  situation.  If 
you  choose  to  understand  me,  you  can — if  you 
don't  choose,  I  am  not  going  to  trouble  myself 
to  explain  my  meaning." 

"And  why  not,"  a.?ked  the  Count,  "when 
your  meaning  can  be  explained  by  any  body  in 
two  words  ?  If  a  fool  was  going  to  commit  a 
murder,  your  lake  is  the  first  jdace  he  would 
choose  for  it.  If  a  wise  man  was  going  to  com- 
mit a  murder,  your  lake  is  the  last  jilace  he 
would  choose  for  it.  Is  that  your  meaning?  If 
it  is,  there  is  your  explanation  for  3'ou,  ready 
made.  Take  it,  Percival,  with  your  good  Fosco's 
blessing." 

Laura  looked  at  the  Count,  with  her  dislike 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


97 


for  him  appearing  a  little  too  plainly  in  her  face. 
He  was  so  busy  with  his  mice  that  he  did  not 
notice  her. 

*'  I  am  sorry  to  hear  the  lake-view  connected 
with  any  thing  so  horrible  as  the  idea  of  mur- 
der," she  said.  "And  if  Count  Fosco  must 
divide  murderers  into  classes,  I  think  he  has 
been  very  unfortunate  in  his  choice  of  expres- 
sions. To  describe  them  as  fools  only,  seems 
like  treating  them  with  an  indulgence  to  which 
tliey  have  no  claim.  And  to  describe  them  as 
■wise  men,  sounds  to  me  like  a  downright  con- 
tradiction in  terms.  I  have  always  heard  that 
truly  wise  men  are  truly  good  men,  and  have  a 
horror  of  crime." 

"  My  dear  lady,"  said  the  Count,  "  those  are 
admirable  sentiments ;  and  I  have  seen  them 
stated  at  the  tops  of  copy-books."  He  lifted 
one  of  the  white  mice  in  the  palm  of  his  hand, 
and  spoke  to  it  in  his  whimsical  way.  "  My 
pretty  little  smooth  white  I'ascal,"  he  said, 
"  here  is  a  moral  lesson  for  you.  A  truly  wise 
Mouse  is  a  truly  good  Mouse.  Mention  that, 
if  you  please,  to  your  companions,  and  never 
gnaw  at  the  bars  of  your  cage  again  as  long  as 
you  live." 

"It  is  easy  to  turn  every  thing  into  ridi- 
cule," said  Laura,  resolutely  ;  "  but  you  will  not 
find  it  quite  so  easy,  Count  Fosco,  to  give  me 
an  instance  of  a  wise  man  who  has  been  a  great 
criminal." 

The  Count  shrugged  his  huge  shoulders,  and 
smiled  on  Laura  in  the  friendliest  manner. 

"Most  true!"  he  said.  "The  fool's  crime  is 
the  crime  that  is  found  out;  and  the  wise  man's 
crime  is  the  crime  that  is  not  found  out.  If  I 
could  give  you  an  instance,  it  would  not  be  the 
instance  of  a  wise  man.  Dear  Lady  Glyde, 
your  sound  English  common  sense  has  been  too 
much  for  me.  It  is  checkmate  for  me  this  time. 
Miss  Halcombe — ha?" 

"  Stand  to  your  guns,  Laura,"  sneered  Sir 
Percival,  who  had  been  listening  in  his  place  at 
the  door.  "Tell  him,  next,  that  crimes  cause 
their  own  detection.  There's  another  bit  of 
copy-book  morality  for  you,  Fosco.  Crimes 
cause  their  own  detection.  What  infernal  hum- 
bug !" 

"  I  believe  it  to  be  true,"  said  Laura,  quietly. 

Sir  Percival  burst  out  laughing — so  violently, 
to  outrageously,  that  he  quite  startled  us  all — 
she  Count  more  than  any  of  us. 

"  I  believe  it,  too,"  I  said,  coming  to  Laura's 
rescue. 

Sir  Percival,  who  had  been  unaccountably 
amused  at  his  wife's  remark,  was,  just  as  unac- 
countably, irritated  by  mine.  He  struck  the  new 
walking-stick  savagely  on  the  sand,  and  walked 
away  from  us. 

"  Poor,  dear  Percival !"  cried  Count  Fosco, 
looking  after  him  gayly;  "he  is  the  victim  of 
English  spleen.  But,  my  dear  Miss  Halcombe, 
my  dear  Lady  Glyde,  do  you  really  believe  that 
crimes  cause  their  own  detection  ?  And  you, 
my  angel,"  he  continued,  turning  to  his  wife, 
who  had  not  uttered  a  word  yet,  "do  you  think 
so  too  ?" 

"  I  wait  to  be  instructed,"  replied  the  Count- 
ess, in  tones  of  freezing  reproof,  intended  for 
Laura  and  me,  "  before  I  venture  on  giving 
my  opinion  in  the  presence  of  well-informed 
men." 

G 


"Do  you,  indeed?"  I  said.  "I  remember 
the  time.  Countess,  when  you  advocated  the 
Rights  of  Women — and  freedom  of  female  opin- 
ion was  one  of  them." 

"  What  is  your  view  of  the  subject.  Count?" 
asked  Madame  Fosco,  calmly  proceeding  with 
her  cigarettes,  and  not  taking  the  least  notice 
of  me. 

The  Count  stroked  one  of  his  white  mice  re- 
flectively with  his  chubby  little  finger  before  he 
answered. 

"It  is  truly  wonderful,"  he  said,  "how  easily 
Society  can  console  itself  for  the  worst  of  its 
shortcomings  with  a  little  bit  of  clap-trap.  The 
machinery  it  has  set  up  for  the  detection  of  crime 
is  miserably  ineft'ective — and  yet  only  invent  a 
moral  epigram,  saying  that  it  works  well,  and 
you  blind  every  body  to  its  blunders  from  that 
moment.  Crimes  cause  their  own  detection,  do 
they  ?  And  murder  will  out  (another  moral  epi- 
gram), will  it  ?  Ask  Coroners  who  sit  at  in- 
quests in  large  towns  if  that  is  true.  Lady  Glyde. 
Ask  secretaries  of  life-assurance  companies  if 
that  is  true.  Miss  Halcombe.  Read  your  own 
]niblic  journals.  In  the  few  cases  that  get  into 
tlie  newspapers,  are  there  not  instances  of  slain 
bodies  found,  and  no  murderers  ever  discover- 
ed ?  Multiply  the  cases  that  are  reported  by  the 
cases  that  are  vot  reported,  and  the  bodies  that 
are  found  by  the  bodies  that  are  7iot  found,  and 
what  conclusion  do  you  come  to?  This:  that 
there  are  foolish  criminals  who  are  discovered, 
and  wise  criminals  who  escape.  The  hiding  of 
a  crime,  or  the  detection  of  a  crime,  what  is  it  ? 
A  trial  of  skill  between  the  police  on  one  side. 
and  the  individual  on  the  other.  When  the 
criminal  is  a  brutal,  ignorant  fool,  the  police,  in 
nine  cases  out  of  ten,  win.  When  the  criminal 
is  a  resolute,  educated,  highly-intelligent  man, 
the  police,  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten,  lose.  If  the 
police  win,  you  generally  hear  all  about  it.  If 
the  police  lose,  you  generally  hear  nothing.  And 
on  this  tottering  foundation  you  build  up  your 
comfortable  moral  maxim  that  Crime  causes  its 
own  detection !  Yes — all  the  crime  yoti  know 
of.     And  what  of  the  rest?" 

"Devilish  true,  and  very  well  put,"  cried  a 
voice  at  the  entrance  of  the  boat-house.  Sir 
Percival  had  recovered  his  equanimity,  and  had 
come  back  while  we  were  listening  to  the  Count. 

"Some  of  it  may  be  true,"  I  said  ;  "and  all 
of  it  may  be  very  well  put.  But  I  don't  see 
why  Count  Fosco  should  celebrate  the  victory 
of  the  criminal  over  society  with  so  much  ex- 
ultation, or  why  you,  Sir  Percival,  should  ap- 
plaud him  so  loudly  for  doing  it." 

"Do  you  hear  that,  Fosco?"  asked  Sir  Per- 
cival, with  a  sneer.  "Take  my  advice,  .and 
make  your  peace  with  your  audience.  Tell 
them  Virtue's  a  fine  thing — they  like  that,  I 
can  promise  you." 

The  Count  laughed  inwardly  and  silently; 
and  two  of  the  white  mice  in  his  waistcoat, 
alarmed  by  the  internal  convulsion  going  on  be- 
neath them,  darted  out  in  a  violent  hurry,  and 
scrambled  into  their  cage  again. 

"The  ladies,  my  good  Percival,  shall  tell  mc 
about  virtue,"  he  said.  "They  are  better  au- 
thorities than  I  am  ;  for  they  know  what  virtue 
is,  and  I  don't." 

"  You  hear  him  ?"  said  Sir  Percival,  "  Isn't 
it  awful?" 


98 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


"  It  is  true,"  said  the  Count,  quietly.  "  I  am 
a  citizen  of  the  world,  and  I  have  met,  in  my 
time,  with  so  many  different  sorts  of  virtue,  that 
I  am  puzzled,  in  my  old  age,  to  say  which  is  the 
right  sort  and  which  is  the  wrong.  Here,  in 
England,  there  is  one  virtue.  And  there,  in 
China,  there  is  another  virtue.  And  John  En- 
glishman says  my  virtue  is  the  genuine  virtue. 
And  John  Chinaman  says  my  virtue  is  the  gen- 
uine virtue.  And  I  say  Yes  to  one,  or  No  to 
the  other,  and  am  just  as  much  bewildered  about 
it  in  the  case  of  John  with  the  top-boots  as  I 
am  in  the  case  of  John  with  the  pigtail.  Ah, 
nice  little  iVIousey !  come  kiss  me.  What  is 
your  own  private  notion  of  a  virtuous  man,  my 
pret-pret-pretty  ?  A  man  who  keeps  you  warm 
and  gives  you  plenty  to  eat.  And  a  good  no- 
tion, too,  for  it  is  intelligible,  at  the  least." 

"  Stay  a  minute.  Count,"  I  interposed.  "  Ac- 
cepting your  illustration,  surely  we  have  one  un- 
questionable virtue  in  England  which  is  want- 
ing in  China.  The  Chinese  authorities  kill 
thousands  of  innocent  people,  on  the  most  hor- 
ribly frivolous  pretexts.  We,  in  England,  are 
free  from  all  guilt  of  that  kind — we  commit  no 
yuch  dreadful  crime — we  abhor  reckless  blood- 
shed with  all  our  hearts." 

"Quite  right,  Marian,"  said  Laura.  "Well 
thought  of,  and  well  expressed." 

"Fray  allow  the  Count  to  proceed,"  said  Ma- 
dame Fosco,  with  stern  civility.  "You  will  find, 
young  ladies,  that  he  never  s))eaks  without  hav- 
ing excellent  reasons  for  all  that  he  says." 

"Thank  you,  my  angel,"  replied  the  Count. 
"Have  a  bonbon?"  He  took  out  of  his  pocket 
a  pretty  little  inlaid  box,  and  placed  it  open  on 
the  table.  "Chocolat  a  la  Vanille,"  cried  the 
impenetrable  man,  cheerfully  rattling  the  sweet- 
meats in  the  box,  and  bowing  all  round.  "  Of- 
fered by  Fosco  as  an  act  of  homage  to  the  charm- 
ing society." 

"Be  good  enough  to  go  on.  Count,"  said 
his  wife,  with  a  spiteful  reference  to  myself. 
"Oblige  me  by  answering  Miss  Halcombe." 

"Miss  Halcombe  is  unanswerable,"  replied 
the  polite  Italian — "  that  is  to  say,  so  far  as  she 
goes.  Yes !  I  agree  with  her.  John  Bull  does 
abhor  the  crimes  of  John  Chinaman.  He  is  the 
quickest  old  gentleman  at  finding  out  the  faults 
that  are  his  neighbors',  and  the  slowest  old 
gentleman  at  finding  out  the  faults  that  are  his 
own,  who  exists  on  the  face  of  creation.  Is  he 
so  very  much  better  in  his  way  than  the  people 
whom  he  condemns  in  their  way  ?  English 
society,  Miss  Halcombe,  is  as  often  the  accom- 
plice as  it  is  the  enemy  of  crime.  Yes !  yes ! 
Crime  is  in  this  country  what  crime  is  in  other 
countries — a  good  friend  to  a  man  and  to  those 
about  him  as  often  as  it  is  an  enemy.  A  great 
rascal  provides  for  his  wife  and  family.  The 
worse  he  is,  the  more  he  makes  them  the  objects 
for  your  sympathy.  He  often  provides,  also,  for 
himself.  A  profligate  spendthrift  who  is  always 
borrowing  money,  will  get  more  from  his  friends 
than  the  rigidly  honest  man  who  only  borrows 
of  them  once,  under  pressure  of  the  direst  want. 
In  the  one  case,  the  friends  will  not  be  at  all 
surprised,  and  they  will  give.  In  the  other 
case,  they  will  be  very  much  surprised,  and  they 
will  hesitate.  Is  the  prison  that  Mr.  Scoundrel 
lives  in,  at  the  end  of  his  career,  a  more  un- 
comfortable place  than  the  work-house  that  Mr. 


Honesty  lives  in,  at  the  end  of  his  career? 
When  John-Howard-Fhilanthropist  wants  to  re- 
lieve misery,  he  goes  to  find  it  in  prisons,  where 
crime  is  wretched — not  in  huts  and  hovels  where 
virtue  is  wretched  too.  Who  is  the  English 
poet  who  has  won  the  most  universal  sympathy 
—  who  makes  the  easiest  of  all  subjects  for 
pathetic  writing  and  pathetic  painting  ?  That 
nice  young  person  who  began  life  with  a  forgery, 
and  ended  it  by  a  suicide — your  dear,  romantic, 
interesting  Chatterlon.  Which  gets  on  best,  do 
you  think,  of  two  poor  stan-ing  dress-makers — 
the  woman  who  resists  temptation,  and  is  honest, 
or  the  woman  who  falls  under  temptation,  and 
steals?  You  all  know  that  the  stealing  is  the 
making  of  that  second  woman's  fortune — it  ad- 
vertises her  from  length  to  breadth  of  good- 
humored,  charitable  England — and  she  is  re- 
lieved, as  the  breaker  of  a  commandment,  when, 
she  would  have  been  left  to  starve,  as  the  keeper 
of  it.  Come  here,  my  jolly  little  Mouse  !  Hey! 
presto!  pass!  I  transform  you,  for  the  time 
being,  into  a  respectable  lady.  Stop  there,  in 
the  palm  of  my  great  big  hand,  my  dear,  and 
listen.  Y^ou  marry  the  poor  man  whom  you 
love.  Mouse ;  and  one  half  your  friends  pity, 
and  the  other  half  blame  you.  And  now,  on 
the  contrary,  you  sell  yourself  for  gold  to  a  man 
you  don't  care  for ;  and  all  your  friends  rejoice 
over  you ;  and  a  minister  of  public  worship 
sanctions  the  base  horror  of  the  vilest  of  all  hu- 
man bargains  ;  and  smiles  and  smirks  afterward 
at  your  table,  if  you  are  polite  enough  to  ask 
him  to  breakfast.  Hey  !  presto  !  pass !  Be  a 
mouse  again,  and  squeak.  If  you  continue  to 
be  a  lady  much  longer,  I  shall  have  you  telling 
me  that  Society  abhors  crime — and  then,  Mouse, 
I  shall  doubt  if  your  own  eyes  and  ears  are 
real]}'  of  any  use  to  you.  Ah  !  I  am  a  bad  man. 
Lady  Clyde,  am  I  not  ?  I  say  what  other  jjcople 
only  think;  and  when  all  the  rest  of  the  world 
is  in  a  conspiracy  to  accept  the  mask  for  the 
true  face,  mine  is  the  rash  hand  that  tears  off 
the  plump  pasteboard,  and  shows  the  bare  bones 
beneath.  I  will  get  up  on  my  big  elephant's 
legs  before  I  do  myself  any  more  harm  in  your 
amiable  estimations — I  will  get  up  and  take  a 
little  airy  walk  of  my  own.  Dear  ladies,  as 
your  excellent  Sheridan  said,  I  go — and  leave 
my  character  behind  me." 

He  got  up,  put  the  cage  on  the  table,  and 
paused  for  a  moment  to  count  the  mice  in  it. 
"  One,  two,  three,  four — Ha !"  he  cried,  with  a 
look  of  horror,  "  where,  in  the  name  of  Heaven, 
is  the  fifth — the  youngest,  the  whitest,  the  most 
amiable  of  all — my  Benjamin  of  mice!" 

Neither  Laura  nor  I  were  in  any  favorable 
disposition  to  be  amused.  The  Count's  glib 
cynicism  had  revealed  a  new  asjiect  of  his  nature 
from  which  we  both  recoiled.  But  it  was  im- 
possible to  resist  the  comical  distress  of  so  very 
large  a  man  at  the  loss  of  so  very  small  a  mouse. 
We  laughed,  in  spite  of  ourselves  ;  and  when 
Madame  Fosco  rose  to  set  the  examjile  of  leav- 
ing the  boat-house  empty,  so  that  her  husband 
might  search  it  to  its  remotest  corners,  we  rose 
also  to  follow  her  out. 

Before  we  had  taken  three  steps  the  Count's 
quick  eye  discovered  the  lost  mouse  under  the 
seat  that  we  had  been  occupying.  He  pulled 
aside  the  bench,  took  the  little  animal  up  in  his 
hand,  and  then  suddenly  stopped,  on  his  knees, 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


0!) 


looking  intently  at  a  particular  place  on  the 
gi-ound  just  beneath  him. 

When  he  rose  to  his  feet  again  his  hand  shook 
so  that  he  could  hardly  jjut  the  mouse  back  in 
the  cage,  and  his  face  was  of  a  faint  livid  yellow- 
hue  all  over. 

"Percival!"  he  said,  in  a  whisper.  "Per- 
cival !  come  here." 

Sir  Percival  had  paid  no  attention  to  any  of 
us  for  the  last  ten  minutes.  He  had  been  en- 
tirely absorbed  in  writing  figures  on  the  sand, 
and  then  rubbing  them  out  again,  with  the  point 
of  his  stick. 

"What's  the  matter  now?"  he  asked,  loung- 
ing carelessly  into  the  boat-house. 

"  Do  you  see  nothing  there  ?"  said  the  Count, 
catching  him  nervously  by  the  collar  with  one 
liand,  and  pointing  with  the  other  to  the  place 
near  which  he  had  found  the  mouse. 

"I  see  plenty  of  dry  sand,"  answered  Sir 
Percival ;  "  and  a  spot  of  dirt  in  the  middle 
of  it." 

"Not  dirt,"  whispered  the  Count,  fastening 
tlie  other  hand  suddenly  on  Sir  Percival's  collar, 
and  shaking  it  in  his  agitation.     "  Blood !" 

Laura  was  near  enough  to  hear  the  last  word, 
softly  as  he  whispered  it.  She  turned  to  me 
with  a  look  of  terror. 

"  Nonsense,  my  dear,"  I  said.  "There  is  no 
need  to  be  alarmed.  It  is  only  the  blood  of  a 
poor  little  stray  dog." 

Every  body  was  astonished,  and  every  body's 
eyes  were  fixed  on  me  inquiringly. 

"How  do  you  know  that?"  asked  Sir  Per- 
cival, speaking  first. 

"  I  found  the  dog  here,  dying,  on  the  day 
when  you  all  returned  from  abroad,"  I  replied. 


"The  poor  creature  had  strayed  into  the  planta- 
tion, and  had  been  shot  by  your  keeper." 

"Whose  dog  was  it?"  inquired  Sir  Percival. 
"  Not  one  of  mine  ?" 

"  Did  you  try  to  save  the  poor  thing?"  asked 
Laura,  earnestly.  "  Surely  you  tried  to  save  it, 
Marian  ?" 

"  Yes,"  I  said ;  "the  housekeeper  and  I  both 
did  our  best — but  the  dog  was  mortally  wound- 
ed, and  he  died  under  our  hands." 

"  Whose  dog  was  it?"  persisted  Sir  Percival, 
repeatihg  his  question  a  little  irritably.  "  (Jne 
of  mine?" 

"  No ;  not  one  of  yours." 

"  Whose,  then  ?  Did  the  housekeeper  know  ?" 

The  housekeeper's  report  of  Mrs.  Catherick's 
desire  to  conceal  her  visit  to  Blackwatcr  Park 
from  Sir  Percival's  knowledge  recurred  to  my 
memory  the  moment  he  ])Ut  that  last  question, 
and  I  half  doubted  the  discretion  of  answerinsr 
it.  But,  in  my  anxiety  to  quiet  the  general 
alarm,  I  had  thoughtlessly  advanced  too  far  to 
draw  back,  except  at  the  risk  of  exciting  sus- 
]iicions  which  might  only  make  matters  worse. 
There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  answer  at  once, 
without  reference  to  results. 

"Yes,"  I  said.  "The  housekeeper  knew. 
She  told  me  it  was  IMrs.  Catherick's  dog." 

Sir  Percival  had  hitherto  remained  at  the  in- 
ner end  of  the  boat-house,  with  Count  Fosco, 
while  I  s]3oke  to  him  from  the  door.  But  the 
instant  IVIrs.  Catherick's  name  passed  my  li])s 
he  pushed  by  the  Count  roughly,  and  placed 
himself  face  to  face  with  me,  under  the  open 
daylight. 

"  How  came  the  housekeeper  to  know  it  war 
Mrs.  Catherick's  dog?"  he  asked,  fixing  his  eyes 
on  mine  with  a  frowning  interest  and  attention 
which  half-angered,  half-startled  me. 

"She  knew  it,"  I  said,  quietly,  "because 
Mrs.  Catherick  brought  the  dog  with  her." 

"  Brought  it  with  her?  Where  did  she  bring 
it  with  her  ?" 

"To  this  house." 

"What  the  devil  did  Mrs.  Catherick  want  at 
this  house?" 

The  manner  in  which  he  put  the  question  was 
even  more  ofl^'ensive  than  the  language  in  which 
he  expressed  it.  I  marked  my  sense  of  his  want 
of  common  politeness  by  silently  turning  away 
from  him. 

Just  as  I  moved,  the  Count's  persuasive  haml 
was  laid  on  his  shoulder,  and  the  (fount's  mel- 
lifluous voice  interposed  to  quiet  him. 

"My  dear  Percival! — gently — gently." 

Sir  Percival  looked  around  in  his  angriest 
manner.  The  Count  only  smiled,  and  repeated 
the  soothing  application. 

"Gently,  my  good  friend — gently!" 

Sir  Percival  hesitated — followed  me  a  few 
ste])s — and,  to  my  great  surprise,  offered  me  an 
apology. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Miss  Halcombe,"  he 
said.  "  I  have  been  out  of  order  lately,  and  I 
am  afraid  I  am  a  little  irritable.  But  I  should 
like  to  know  what  Mrs.  Catherick  could  ])Ossibly 
want  here.  When  did  she  come?  Was  the 
housekeeper  the  only  person  who  saw  her?" 

"The  only  person,"  I  answered,  '"  so  far  as  I 
know." 

The  Count  interposed  again. 

"In  that  case,  why  not  question  the  house- 


100 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


keeper?"  he  said.     "Why  not  go,  Percival,  to 
the  fountain-head  of  information  at  once?" 

"  Quite  right !"  said  Sir  Percivah  "  Of  course 
the  housekeeper  is  the  first  person  to  question. 
Kxcessively  stupid  of  me  not  to  see  it  myself." 
AVith  those  words  he  instantly  left  us  to  return 
to  the  house. 

The  motive  of  the  Count's  interference,  which 
had  puzzled  me  at  first,  betrayed  itself  when  Sir 
Percival's  back  was  turned.  He  had  a  host  of 
questions  to  put  to  me  about  INIrs.  Catherick, 
and  the  cause  of  her  visit  to  Blackwatef  Park, 
which  he  could  scarcely  have  asked  in  his  friend's 
presence.  I  made  my  answers  as  short  as  I 
civilly  could — for  I  had  already  determined  to 
check  the  least  ap])roach  to  any  exchanging  of 
confidences  between  Count  Fosco  and  myself. 
Laura,  however,  unconsciously  helped  him  to 
extract  all  my  information,  by  making  inquiries 
herself,  which  left  me  no  alternative  but  to  re- 
])ly  to  her,  or  to  appear  before  them  all  in  the 
very  itnenviable  and  very  false  character  of  a 
depositary  of  Sir  Percival's  secrets.  The  end 
of  it  was,  that  in  about  ten  minutes'  time  the 
Count  knew  as  much  as  I  know  of  Mrs.  Cath- 
erick, and  of  the  events  which  have  so  strangely 
connected  us  with  her  daughter,  Anne,  from  the 
time  when  Hartright  met  with  her  to  this  day. 

The  effect  of  my  information  on  him  was,  in 
one  I'espect,  curious  enough.  Intimately  as  he 
knows  Sir  Percival,  and  closely  as  he  appears  to 
be  associated  with  Sir  Percival's  private  affairs 
in  general,  he  is  certainly  as  far  as  I  am  from 
knowing  any  thing  of  the  true  story  of  Anne 
Catherick.  The  unsolved  mystery  in  connec- 
tion with  this  unhajipy  woman  is  now  rendered 
doubly  suspicious,  in  my  eyes,  by  the  absolute 
conviction  which  I  feel  that  the  clew  to  it  has 
lieen  hidden  by  Sir  Percival  from  the  most  inti- 
mate friend  he  has  in  the  world.  It  was  impos- 
sible to  mistake  the  eager  curiosity  of  the  Count's 
look  and  manner  while  he  drank  in  greedily 
every  Avord  that  fell  from  my  li])s.  There  are 
many  kinds  of  curiosity,  I  know — but  there  is 
no  misinterpreting  the  curiosity  of  blank  sur- 
•prise:  if  ever  I  saw  it  in  my  life,  I  saw  it  in 
the  Count's  face. 

While  the  questions  and  answers  were  go- 
ing on  we  had  all  been  strolling  quietly  back 
through  the  plantation.  As  soon  as  Ave  reached 
the  house  the  first  object  that  Ave  saAv  in  front 
of  it  Avas  Sir  Percival's  dog-cart,  Avith  the  horse 
]>ut  to  and  the  groom  Avaiting  by  it  in  his  stable- 
jacket.  If  these  unexpected  appearances  Avere 
to  be  trusted,  the  exar.iination  of  the  house- 
keeper had  produced  important  results  already. 

"  A  fine  horse,  my  friend,"  said  the  Count, 
addressing  the  groom  with  the  most  engaging 
familiarity  of  manner.  "You  are  going  to  drive 
out  ?" 

"  7  am  not  going,  Sir,"  replied  the  man,  look- 
ing at  his  stable-jacket,  and  evidently  Avonder- 
ing  Avhether  the  foreign  gentleman  took  it  for 
his  livery.     "  My  master  driA-es  himself." 

"Aha?"  said  the  Count,  "does  he,  indeed? 
I  wonder  he  gives  himself  the  trouble  Avhen  he 
has  got  you  to  drive  for  him  ?  Is  he  going  to 
i'atigue  that  nice,  shining,  pretty  horse  by  taking 
him  very  far,  to-day?" 

"I  don't  knoAv,  Sir,"  answered  the  man. 
"  The  horse  is  a  mare,  if  you  ])lease,  Sir.  She's 
the  highcst-couraged  thing  Avc've   got  in   the 


stables.  Her  name's  Brown  Mollj%  Sir;  and 
she'll  go  till  she  drops.  Sir  Percival  usually 
takes  Isaac  of  York  for  the  short  distances." 

"And  your  shining  courageous  BroAvn  Molly 
for  the  long?" 

"Yes,  Sir." 

"Logical  inference.  Miss  Ilalcombe,"  con- 
tinued the  Count,  Avheeling  round  briskly,  and 
addressing  me;  "Sir  Percival  is  going  a  long 
distance  to-day." 

I  made  no  reply.  I  had  my  own  inferences 
to  draAv,  from  Avhat  I  kncAv  through  the  house- 
keeper and  from  Avhat  I  saAV  before  me ;  and  I 
did  not  choose  to  share  them  Avith  Count  Fosco. 

When  Sir  Percival  Avas  in  Cumberland  (I 
thought  to  myself)  he  Avalked  aAvay  a  long  dis- 
tance, on  Anne's  account,  to  question  the  family 
at  Todd's  Corner.  Noav  he  is  in  Hampshire, 
is  he  going  to  drive  away  a  long  distance,  on 
Anne's  account  again,  to  question  Mrs.  Cath- 
erick at  Welmingham  ? 

We  all  entered  the  house.  As  we  crossed 
the  hall  Sir  Percival  came  out  from  the  library 
to  meet  us.  He  looked  hurried  and  pale  and 
anxious — but  for  all  that  he  Avas  in  his  most 
polite  mood  Avhen  he  spoke  to  us. 

"I  am  sorry  to  say  I  am  obliged  to  leave 
you,"  he  began — "  a  long  drive — a  matter  that  I 
can't  very  Avell  put  off.  I  shall  be  back  in  good 
time  to-morroAv — but,  before  I  go,  I  should  like 
that  little  business-formality  Avhich  I  spoke  of 
this  morning  to  be  settled.  Laura,  will  you 
come  into  the  library  ?  It  won't  take  a  minute 
— a  mere  formality.  Countess,  may  I  trouble 
you  also?  I  Avant  you  and  the  Countess,  Fosco, 
to  be  Avitnesses  to  a  signature — nothing  more. 
Come  in  at  once,  and  get  it  over." 

He  held  the  library  door  open  until  they  had 
passed  in,  foUoAved  them,  and  shut  it  softly. 

I  remained  for  a  moment  afterAvard  standing 
alone  in  the  hall,  Avith  my  heart  beating  fast, 
and  my  mind  misgiving  me  sadly.  Then  I 
Avcnt  on  to  the  staircase  and  ascended  slowly 
to  my  OAvn  room. 

Just  as  my  hand  Avas  on  the  door  of  my  room 
I  heard  Sir  Percival's  voice  calling  to  me  from 
beloAA'. 

"  I  must  beg  you  to  come  doAvn  stairs  again," 
he  said.  "It  is  Fosco's  fault.  Miss  Halcombe, 
not  mine.  He  has  started  some  nonsensical 
objection  to  his  Avife  being  one  of  the  Avitnesses, 
and  has  obliged  me  to  ask  you  to  join  us  in  the 
library." 

I  entered  the  room  immediately  Avith  Sir  Per- 
cival. Laura  Avas  Avaiting  by  the  Avriting-table, 
twisting  and  turning  her  garden  hat  uneasily  in 
her  hands.  Madame  Fosco  sat  near  her,  in  an 
arm-chair,  imperturbably  admiring  her  husband, 
Avho  stood  by  himself  at  the  other  end  of  the  li- 
brary, picking  off'  the  dead  leaves  from  the  flow- 
ers in  the  AvindoAV. 

The  moment  I  appeared  the  Count  advanced 
to  meet  me,  and  to  offer  his  explanations. 

"A  tliousand  pardons,  IMiss  Halcombe,"  he 
said.  "You  know  the  character  Avhich  is  given 
to  my  countrymen  by  the  English  ?  We  Ital- 
ians are  all  Avily  and  suspicious  by  nature,  in 
the  estimation  of  the  good  John  Bull.  Set  me 
doAvn,  if  you  please,  as  being  no  better  than  the 
rest  of  my  race.  I  am  a  Avily  Italian,  and  a  sus- 
picious Italian.  You  have  thouglit  so  yourself, 
dear  lady,  haA'c  you  not?     Well!  it  is  part  of 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


101 


my  wiliness  and  part  of  my  suspicion  to  object  to 
Madame  Fosco  being  a  witness  to  Lady  Glyde's 
signature,  when  I  am  also  a  witness  myself." 

"  There  is  not  the  shadow  of  a  reason  for  his 
objection,"  interposed  ISir  Percival.  "  I  have 
explained  to  him  that  the  law  of  England  allows 
Madame  Fosco  to  witness  a  signatui-e  as  well  as 
her  husband." 

"  I  admit  it,"  resumed  the  Count.  "  The  law 
of  England  says  Yes  —  but  the  conscience  of 
Fosco  says  No."  He  spread  out  his  fat  fingers 
oil  the  bosom  of  his  blouse,  and  bowed  solemn- 
ly, as  if  he  wished  to  introduce  his  conscience 
to  us  all,  in  the  character  of  an  illustrious  ad- 
dition to  the  society.  "  What  this  document 
which  Lady  Glyde  is  about  to  sign  may  be,"  he 
continued,  "I  neither  know  nor  desire  to  know. 
I  only  say  this :  circumstances  may  happen  in 
the  future  which  may  oblige  Percival,  or  his 
representatives,  to  appeal  to  the  two  witnesses  ; 
in  which  case  it  is  certainly  desirable  that  those 
witnesses  should  represent  two  opinions  which 
are  perfectly  indejiendent  the  one  of  tlie  other. 
This  can  not  be  if  my  wife  signs  as  well  as  my- 
self, because  we  liave  but  one  opinion  between 
us,  and  that  opinion  is  mine.  I  will  not  have 
it  cast  in  my  teeth,  at  some  future  day,  that 
Madame  Fosco  acted  under  my  coercion,  and 
was,  in  plain  fact,  no  witness  at  all.  I  speak 
in  Fercival's  interests  when  I  propose  that  my 
name  shall  appear  (as  the  nearest  friend  of  the 
husband),  and  your  name.  Miss  Halcombe  (as 
the  nearest  friend  of  the  wife).  I  am  a  Jesuit, 
if  you  please  to  think  so — a  splitter  of  straws — 
a  man  of  ti'ifles,  and  crotchets,  and  scruples — 
but  you  will  humor  me,  I  hope,  in  merciful  con- 
sideration for  my  suspicious  Italian  character, 
and  my  uneasy  Italian  conscience."  He  bowed 
again,  stepped  back  a  few  paces,  and  withdrew 
his  conscience  from  our  society  as  politely  as  he 
had  introduced  it. 

The  Count's  scruples  might  have  been  hon- 
orable and  reasonable  enough,  but  there  was 
something  in  his  manner  of  expressing  them 
which  increased  my  unwillingness  to  be  con- 
cerned in  the  business  of  the  signature.  No 
consideration  of  less  importance  than  my  con- 
sideration for  Laura  would  have  induced  me  to 
consent  to  be  a  witness  at  all.  One  look,  how- 
ever, at  her  anxious  face  decided  me  to  risk  any 
Ching  rather  than  desert  her. 

"I  will  readily  remain  in  the  room,"  I  said. 
"  And  if  I  find  no  reason  for  starting  any  small 
scruples  on  my  side  you  may  rely  on  me  as  a  wit- 
ness." 

Sir  Percival  looked  at  me  sharply,  as  if  he  was 
about  to  say  something.  But  at  the  same  mo- 
ment Madame  Fosco  attracted  his  attention  by 
rising  from  her  chair.  She  had  caught  her  hus- 
band's eye,  and  had  evidently  received  her  or- 
ders to  leave  the  room. 

"  You  needn't  go,"  said  Sir  Percival. 
Madame  Fosco  looked  for  lier  orders  again, 
got  them  again,  said  she  would  prefer  leaving 
us  to  our  business,  and  resolutely  walked  out. 
The  Count  lit  a  cigarette,  went  back  to  the  flow- 
ers in  the  window,  and  puiflfed  little  jets  of  smoke 
at  the  leaves,  in  a  state  of  the  deepest  anxiety 
about  killing  the  insects. 

Meanwhile,  Sir  Percival  unlocked  a  cupboard 
beneath  one  of  the  book-cases,  and  produced 
from  it  a  piece  of  2>archment,  folded,  longwise, 


many  times  over.  He  placed  it  on  the  table, 
opened  the  last  fold  only,  and  kept  his  hand  on 
the  rest.  The  last  fold  displayed  a  strip  of 
blank  parchment,  with  little  wafers  stuck  on  it 
at  certain  places.  Every  line  of  tlie  writing  was 
hidden  in  the  part  which  he  still  held  folded  u]) 
under  his  hand.  Laura  and  I  looked  at  eacli 
other.  Her  face  was  pale — but  it  showed  no 
indecision  and  no  fear. 

Sir  Percival  dipped  a  pen  in  ink,  and  handed 
it  to  his  wife. 

"  Sign  your  name  there,"  he  said,  pointing  to 
the  place.  "You  and  Fosco  are  to  sign  after- 
ward. Miss  Halcombe,  opposite  those  two  wa- 
fers. Come  here,  Fosco !  witnessing  a  signa- 
ture is  not  to  be  done  by  mooning  out  of  win- 
dow and  smoking  into  the  flowers." 

The  Count  threw  away  his  cigarette,  and  join- 
ed us  at  the  table,  with  his  hands  carelessly 
thrust  into  the  scarlet  belt  of  his  blouse,  and  his 
eyes  steadily  fixed  on  Sir  Percival's  face.  Lau- 
ra, who  was  on  the  other  side  of  her  husband, 
with  the  pen  in  her  hand,  looked  at  him  too. 
He  stood  between  them,  holding  the  folded 
parchment  down  firmly  on  the  table,  and  glan- 
cing across  at  me,  as  I  sat  opposite  to  him,  with 
such  a  sinister  mixture  of  suspicion  and  embar- 
rassment in  his  face,  that  he  looked  more  like  a 
prisoner  at  the  bar  than  a  gentleman  in  his  own 
house. 

"  Sign  there!"  he  repeated,  turning  suddenly 
on  Laura,  and  pointing  once  more  to  the  place 
on  the  parchment. 

"  What  is  it  I  am  to  sign  ?"  she  asked,  quietly. 
"I  have  no  time  to  explain,"  he  answered. 
"The  dog-cart  is  at  the  door,  and  I  must  go 
directly.  Besides,  if  I  had  time,  you  wouldn't 
understand.  It  is  a  purely  formal  document — 
full  of  legal  technicalities,  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing.  Come  !  come !  sign  your  name,  and  let 
us  have  done  as  soon  as  possible." 

"  I  ought  surely  to  know  what  I  am  signing, 
Sir  Percival,  before  I  write  my  name  ?" 

"  Nonsense  !  What  have  women  to  do  with 
business?  I  tell  you  again,  you  can't  under- 
stand it." 

"At  any  rate,  let  me  try  to  understand  it. 
Whenever  Mr.  Gilmorc  had  any  business  for  me 
to  do,  he  always  explained  it  first ;  and  I  al- 
ways understood  him." 

"I  dare  say  he  did.  He  was  your  servant, 
and  was  obliged  to  explain.  I  am  your  hus- 
band, and  am  iiot  obliged.  How  much  longer 
do  you  mean  to  keep  me  here  ?  I  tell  you 
again,  there  is  no  time  for  reading  any  thing: 
the  dog-cart  is  waiting  at  the  door.  Once  for 
all,  will  you  sign,  or  will  you  not?" 

She  still  had  the  pen  in  her  hand,  but  she 

made  no  approach  to  signing  her  name  with  it. 

"If  my  signature  pledges  me  to  any  thing," 

she  said,  "  surely  I  have  some  claim  to  know 

what  that  pledge  is  ?" 

He  lifted  up  the  parchment,  and  struck  it  an- 
grily on  the  table. 

"Speak  out!"  he  said.  "You  were  always 
famous  for  telling  the  truth.  Never  mind  Miss 
Halcombe  ;  never  mind  Fosco  —  say,  in  plain 
terms,  you  distrust  me." 

The  Count  took  one  of  his  hands  out  of  his 
belt,  and  laid  it  on  Sir  Percival's  shoulder.  Sir 
Percival  shook  it  oft'  irritably.  The  Count  put 
it  on  again  with  unruftled  composure. 


102 


THE  "VVO:.IAN  IN  WHITE. 


■  SIGN    lllEllE  ; 


"Control  your  unfortnnate  temper, Percival," 
he  said.     "Lady  Glyde  is  right." 

"  Right !"  cried  Sir  Percival.  "  A  wife  right 
in  distrusting  her  husband !" 

"It  is  unjust  and  cruel  to  accuse  me  of  dis- 
trusting you,"  said  Laura.  "Ask  Marian  if  I 
am  not  justified  in  wanting  to  know  what  this 
writing  requires  of  me  before  I  sign  it  ?" 

"  I  won't  have  any  appeals  made  to  Miss  Hal- 
combe,"  retorted  Sir  Percival.  "  Miss  Halcombe 
has  nothing  to  do  with  the  matter." 

I  had  not  s])oken  hitherto,  and  I  would  much 
rather  not  have  spoken  now.  But  the  expres- 
sion of  distress  in  Laura's  face  M'hcn  slie  turned 
it  toward  me,  and  the  insolent  injustice  of  her 
husband's  conduct,  left  me  no  other  alternative 
than  to  give  my  o]>inion,  for  her  sake,  as  soon 
as  I  was  asked  for  it. 

"Excuse  mc.  Sir  Percival,"  I  said — "hut,  as 
one  of  the  witnesses  to  the  signature,  I  venture 
to  think  that  I  have  something  to  do  with  tlie 
matter.  Laura's  objection  seems  to  me  to  lie 
a  perfectly  fair  one;  and,  speaking  for  myself 
only,  I  can  not  assume  the  res])onsibi]ity  of  wit- 
tiessing  her  signature,  unless  she  first  under- 
stands what  the  writing  is  which  you  wish  her 
to  sign." 

"A  cool  declaration,  ujion  my  soul!"  cried 


Sir  Percival.  "  Tlie  next  time  you  invite  your- 
self to  a  man's  house,  IMiss  Halcombe,  I  recom- 
mend you  not  to  repay  his  hospitality  by  taking 
his  Mife's  side  against  him  in  a  matter  that 
doesn't  concern  you." 

I  started  to  my  feet  as  suddenly  as  if  he  bad 
struck  me.  If  I  had  been  a  man  I  would  have 
knocked  him  down  on  tlie  thresliold  of  his  own 
door,  and  have  left  his  house,  never,  on  any 
earthly  consideration,  to  enter  it  again.  But 
I  was  only  a  woman — and  I  loved  his  wife  so 
dearly ! 

Thank  God,  that  faithful  love  helped  me,  and 
I  sat  down  again  without  sayiug  a  word.  SffC 
knew  what  I  had  suffered  and  what  I  had  sup- 
pressed. She  ran  round  to  mc,  with  the  tear? 
streaming  from  her  eyes.  "Oh,  Marian  !"  she 
whis])ered  softly.  "If  my  mother  had  been 
alive  she  could  have  done  no  more  for  me!" 

"Come  back  and  sign  !"  cried  Sir  I'ercival. 
from  the  other  side  of  tlie  table. 

"  Shall  I  ?"  she  asked  in  my  car;  "I  will,  if 
you  tell  me." 

"No,"  I  answered.  "The  right  and  tlie 
truth  are  with  you — sign  nothing,  uidess  you 
have  read  it  first." 

"Come  back  and  sign  !"  he  reiterated,  in  his 
loudest  and  angriest  tones. 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


103 


The  Count,  who  had  watched  Laura  and  me 
with  a  close  and  silent  attention,  interposed  for 
the  second  time. 

" Percival !"  he  said,  "/remember  that  I 
am  in  the  presence  of  ladies.  Be  good  enough, 
if  you  please,  to  remember  it  too." 

Sir  Percival  turned  on  him,  speechless  with 
passion.  The  Count's  firm  hand  slowly  tight- 
ened its  grasp  on  his  shoulder,  and  the  Count's 
steady  voice  quietly  repeated,  "  Be  good  enough, 
if  you  please,  to  remember  it  too." 

They  both  looked  at  each  other.  Sir  Percival 
slowly  drew  his  shoulder  from  under  the  Count's 
hand ;  slowly  turned  his  face  away  from  the 
Count's  eyes ;  doggedly  looked  down  for  a  little 
while  at  the  parchment  on  the  table ;  and  then 
spoke,  with  the  sullen  submission  of  a  tamed 
animal  rather  than  the  becoming  resignation 
of  a  convinced  man. 

"  I  don't  want  to  offend  any  body,"  he  said. 
"But  my  wife's  obstinacy  is  enough  to  try  the 
patience  of  a  saint.  I  liave  told  her  this  is 
merely  a  formal  document — and  what  more  can 
she  want?  You  may  say  what  you  please ;  but 
it  is  no  part  of  a  woman's  duty  to  set  her  hus- 
band at  defiance.  Once  more.  Lady  Clyde, 
and  for  the  last  time,  will  you  sign  or  will  you 
not  ?" 

Laura  returned  to  his  side  of  the  table,  and 
took  uj)  tlie  pen  again. 

" I  will  sign  with  pleasure," she  said,  "if  you 
will  only  treat  me  as  a  responsible  being.  I 
care  little  what  sacrifice  is  required  of  me,  if  it 
will  affect  no  one  else,  and  lead  to^no  ill  re- 
sults—" 

"Who  talked  of  a  sacrifice  being  required  of 
you  ?"  he  broke  in,  with  a  half-suppressed  return 
of  his  former  violence. 

"  I  only  meant,"  she  I'esumed,  "  that  I  would 
\'efuse  no  concession  which  I  could  honorably 
make.  If  I  have  a  scruple  about  signing  my 
name  to  an  engagement  of  which  I  know  no- 
thing, why  should  you  visit  it  on  me  so  severe- 
ly? It  is  rather  hard,  I  think,  to  treat  Count 
Fosco's  scruples  so  much  more  indulgently  than 
you  have  treated  mine." 

This  unfortunate,  yet  most  natural,  reference 
to  the  Count's  extraordinary  power  over  her 
husband,  indirect  as  it  was,  set  Sir  Percival's 
smouldering  temper  on  fire  again  in  an  instant. 

"Scruples!"  he  repeated.  "  Yo^jr  scruples! 
It  is  rather  late  in  the  day  for  you  to  be  scrupu- 
lous. I  should  have  thought  you  had  got  over 
all  weakness  of  that  sort  when  you  made  a  vir- 
tue of  necessity  by  marrying  ?«e." 

The  instant  he  spoke  those  words  Laura 
threw  down  the  pen — looked  at  him  with  an  ex- 
pression in  her  eyes  which,  throughout  all  my 
experience  of  her,  I  had  never  seen  in  them  be- 
fore— and  turned  her  back  on  him  in  dead 
silence. 

This  strong  expression  of  the  most  open  and 
the  most  bitter  contempt  was  so  entirely  unlike 
herself,  so  utterly  out  of  her  character,  that  it 
silenced  us  all.  There  was  something  hidden, 
beyond  a  doubt,  under  the  mere  surface-brutali- 
ty of  the  words  which  her  husband  had  just  ad- 
dressed to  her.  There  was  some  lurking  insult 
beneath  them,  of  which  I  was  wholly  ignorant, 
but  which  had  left  the  mark  of  its  jjrofanation 
(^o  plainly  on  her  face  that  even  a  stranger  might 
have  seen  it. 


The  Count,  who  was  no  stranger,  saw  it  as 
distinctly  as  I  did.  When  I  left  my  chair  to 
join  Laura  I  heard  him  whisper  under  his 
breath  to  Sir  Percival:   "You  idiot!" 

Laura  walked  before  me  to  the  door  as  I  ad- 
vanced, and  at  the  same  time  her  husband 
spoke  to  her  once  more. 

"You  positively  refuse,  then,  to  give  me  your 
signature  ?"  he  said,  in  the  altered  tone  of  a  man 
who  was  conscious  that  he  had  let  his  own  li- 
cense of  language  seriously  injure  him. 

"After  what  you  have  said  to  me,"  she  re- 
plied, firmly,  "  I  refuse  my  signature  until  I  have 
read  every  line  in  that  parchment  from  the  first 
word  to  the  last.  Come  away,  Marian,  we  have 
remained  here  long  enough." 

"  One  moment !"  interposed  the  Count,  before 
Sir  Percival  could  speak  again — "  one  moment, 
LadyGlyde,  I  implore  you!" 

Laura  would  have  left  the  room  without  no- 
ticing him,  but  I  stop])ed  her. 

"Don't  make  an  enemy  of  the  Count!"  I 
whispered.  "  Whatever  you  do,  don't  make  an 
enemy  of  the  Count!" 

She  yielded  to  me.  I  closed  the  door  again ; 
and  we  stood  near  it,  waiting.  Sir  Percival  sat 
down  at  the  table,  with  his  elbow  on  the  folded 
parchment,  and  his  head  resting  on  his  clenched 
fist.  The  Count  stood  between  us — master  of 
the  dreadful  position  in  which  we  were  placed, 
as  he  was  master  of  every  thing  else. 

"Lady  Clyde,"  he  said,  with  a  gentleness 
which  seemed  to  address  itself  to  our  forlorn 
situation  instead  of  to  ourselves,  "pray  pardon 
me  if  I  venture  to  ofter  one  suggestion ;  and 
pray  believe  that  I  s])eak  out  of  my  profound 
respect  and  my  friendly  regard  for  the  mistress 
of  this  house."  He  turned  sharply  toward  Sir 
Percival.  "Is  it  absolutely  necessary,"  he 
asked,  "that  this  thing  here,  under  your  elbow, 
should  be  signed  to-day  ?" 

"  It  is  necessary  to  my  plans  and  wishes,"  re- 
plied the  other,  sulkily.  "But  that  considera- 
tion, as  you  may  have  noticed,  has  no  influence 
with  Lady  Clyde." 

"  Answer  my  plain  question  plainly.  Can 
the  business  of  the  signature  be  put  off  till  to- 
morrow— Yes,  or  No?" 

"Yes — if  you  will  have  it  so." 

"Then  what  are  you  wasting  your  time  for 
here?  Let  the  signature  wait  till  to-morrow — 
let  it  wait  till  j^ou  come  back." 

Sir  Percival  looked  up  with  a  frown  and  an 
oath. 

"You  are  taking  a  tone  with  me  that  I  don't 
like,"  he  said.  "A  tone  I  won't  bear  from  any 
man." 

"  I  am  advising  yon  for  your  good,"  return- 
ed the  Count,  with  a  smile  of  quiet  contempt. 
"Give  yourself  time;  give  Lady  Clyde  time. 
Have  you  forgotten  that  your  dog-cart  is  wait- 
ing at  the  door?  My  tone  surprises  you,  ha? 
I  dare  say  it  does  ;  it  is  the  tone  of  a  man  who 
can  keep  his  temper.  How  many  doses  of  good 
advice  have  I  given  you  in  my  time?  More 
than  you  can  count.  Have  I  ever  been  wrong  ? 
I  defy  you  to  quote  me  an  instance  of  it.  Go! 
take  your  drive.  The  matter  of  the  signature 
can  wait  till  to-morrow.  Let  it  wait;  and  re- 
new it  when  you  come  back." 

Sir  Percival  hesitated  and  looked  at  his  watch. 
His  anxiety  about  the  secret  journey  which  he 


lOi 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


■was  to  take  that  day,  revived  by  the  Count's 
words,  was  now  evidently  disputing  possession 
of  his  mind  with  his  anxiety  to  obtain  Laura's 
signature.  He  considered  for  a  little  while, 
and  then  got  up  from  his  chair. 

"It  is  easy  to  argue  me  down,"  he  said, 
"  when  I  have  no  time  to  answer  you.  I  will 
take  your  advice,  Fosco — not  because  I  want  it, 
or  believe  in  it,  but  because  I  can't  stop  here 
any  longer."  He  paused,  and  looked  round 
darkly  at  his  wife.  "  If  you  don't  give  me  your 
signature  when  I  come  back  to-morrow — !" 
The  rest  was  lost  in  the  noise  of  his  opening 
the  book-case  cupboard  again  and  locking  up 
the  parchment  once  more.  He  took  his  hat 
and  gloves  oft'  the  table  and  made  for  tiie  door. 
Laura  and  I  drew  back  to  let  him  pass.  "Re- 
member to-morrow!"  he  said  to  his  wife,  and 
went  out. 

We  waited  to  give  him  time  to  cross  the  hall 
and  drive  away.  The  Count  approached  us 
while  we  were  standing  near  the  door. 

"You  have  just  seen  Percival  at  his  worst. 
Miss  Halcombe,"  he  said.  "As  his  old  friend, 
I  am  sorry  for  him  and  ashamed  of  him.  As 
his  old  friend,  I  promise  you  that  he  shall  not 
break  out  to-morrow  in  the  same  disgraceful 
manner  in  which  he  has  broken  out  to-day." 

Laura  had  taken  my  arm  while  he  was  speak- 
ing, and  sh"",  pressed  it  significantly  when  he  had 
done.  It  would  have  been  a  hard  trial  to  any 
woman  to  stand  by  and  see  the  oiiflce  of  apolo- 
gist for  her  husband's  misconduct  quietly  as- 
sumed by  his  male  friend  in  her  own  house ; 
and  it  was  a  hard  trial  to  her.  I  thanked  the 
Count  civilly,  and  led  her  out.  Yes !  I  thanked 
him :  for  I  felt  already,  with  a  sense  of  inex- 
pressible helplessness  and  humiliation,  that  it 
was  either  his  interest  or  his  caprice  to  make 
sure  of  my  continuing  to  reside  at  Blackwater 
Park;  and  I  knew,  after  Sir  Percival's  conduct 
to  me,  that,  without  the  support  of  the  Count's 
influence,  I  could  not  hope  to  remain  there. 
His  influence,  the  influence  of  all  others  that  I 
dreaded  most,  was  actually  the  one  tie  which 
now  held  me  to  Laura  in  the  hour  of  her  utmost 
need ! 

We  heard  the  wheels  of  the  dog-cart  crash- 
ing on  the  gravel  of  the  drive  as  we  came  out 
into  the  hall.  Sir  Percival  had  started  on  his 
journey. 

"Where  is  he  going  to,  Marian?"  Laura 
whispered.  "Every  fresh  thing  he  does  seems 
to  terrify  me  about  the  future.  Have  you  any 
suspicions?" 

After  what  she  had  undergone  that  morning, 
I  was  unwilling  to  tell  her  my  suspicions. 

"How  should  I  know  his  secrets?"  I  said, 
evasively. 

' '  I  wonder  if  the  housekeeper  knows  ?"  she 
persisted. 

"Certainly  not,"  I  replied.  "She  must  be 
quite  as  ignorant  as  we  are." 

Laura  shook  her  head  doubtfully. 

"Did  you  not  hear  from  the  housekeeper 
that  there  was  a  report  of  Anne  Cathcrick  hav- 
ing been  seen  in  this  neighborhood  ?  Don't 
you  think  he  may  have  gone  away  to  look  for 
her?" 

"I  would  rather  compose  myself,  Laura,  by 
not  thinking  aliout  it  at  all ;  and  after  what  has 
happened,  you  had  better  follow  my  example. 


Come  into  my  room,  and  rest  aud  quiet  yourself 
a  little." 

We  sat  down  together  close  to  the  window, 
and  let  the  fragrant  summer  air  breathe  over 
our  faces. 

"I  am  ashamed  to  look  at  you,  Marian,"  she 
said,  "after  what  you  submitted  to  down  stairs, 
for  my  sake.  Oh,  my  own  love,  I  am  almost 
heart-broken  when  I  think  of  it !  But  I  will  try 
to  make  it  up  to  you — I  will,  indeed !" 

"Hush!  hush!"  I  replied;  "don't  talk  so. 
What  is  the  trifling  mortification  of  my  pride 
compared  to  the  dreadful  sacrifice  of  your  hap- 
piness?" 

"  You  heard  what  he  said  to  me  ?"  she  went 
on,  quickly  and  vehemently.  "  You  heard  the 
words — but  you  don't  know  what  they  meant — 
you  don't  know  why  I  threw  down  the  pen  and 
turned  my  back  on  him."  She  rose  in  sudden 
agitation,  and  walked  about  the  room.  "I  have 
kept  many  things  from  your  knowledge,  Mari- 
an, for  fear  of  distressing  you,  and  making  yon 
unhappy  at  the  outset  of  our  new  lives.  You 
don't  know  how  he  has  used  me.  And  yet 
you  ought  to  know,  for  you  saw  how  he  used 
me  to-day.  You  heard  him  sneer  at  my  pre- 
suming to  be  scrupulous ;  you  heard  him  say  I 
had  made  a  virtue  of  necessity  in  marrying 
him."  She  sat  down  again;  her  face  flushed 
deeply,  and  her  hands  twisted  and  twined  to- 
gether in  her  lap.  "I  can't  tell  you  about  it 
now,"  she  said;  "I  shall  burst  out  crying  if  I 
tell  you  now — later,  Marian,  when  I  am  more 
sure  of  myself.  My  poor  head  aches,  darling — 
aches,  aches,  aches.  Where  is  your  smelling- 
bottle?  Let  me  talk  to  you  about  yourself.  I 
wish  I  had  given  him  my  signature,  for  your  sake. 
Shall  I  give  it  to  him  to-morrow  ?  I  would  rath- 
er compromise  myself  than  compromise  you. 
After  your  taking  my  part  against  him,  he  will 
lay  all  the  blame  on  you  if  I  refuse  again.  What 
shall  we  do?  Oh  for  a  friend  to  help  us  and 
advise  us  ! — a  friend  we  could  really  trust!" 

She  sighed  bitterly.  I  saw  in  her  face  that 
she  was  thinking  of  Hartright — saw  it  the  more 
])lainly  because  her  last  words  had  set  me  think- 
ing of  him  too.  In  six  months  only  from  her 
marriage  we  wanted  the  faithful  service  he  had 
offered  to  us  in  his  farewell  words.  How  lit- 
tle I  once  thought  that  we  should  ever  want  it 
at  all ! 

"We  must  do  what  we  can  to  help  ourselves," 
I  said.  "  Let  us  try  to  talk  it  over  calmly,  Lau- 
ra— let  us  do  all  in  our  power  to  decide  for  the 
best." 

Putting  what  she  knew  of  her  husband's  em- 
barrassments, and  what  I  had  heard  of  his  con- 
versation with  the  lawyer,  together,  we  arrived 
necessarily  at  the  conclusion  that  the  parch- 
ment in  the  library  had  been  drawn  up  for  the 
purpose  of  borrowing  money,  and  that  Laura's 
signature  was  absolutely  necessary  to  fit  it  for 
the  attainment  of  Sir  Percival's  object. 

Tlio  second  question,  concerning  the  nature 
of  the  legal  contract  by  which  the  money  was 
to  be  obtained,  and  the  degree  of  personal  re- 
sponsibility to  which  Laura  might  subject  her- 
self if  she  signed  it  in  the  dark,  involved  consid- 
erations which  lay  far  beyond  any  knowledge 
and  experience  that  either  of  us  possessed.  My 
own  convictions  led  me  to  believe  that  the  hid- 
den contents  of  the  parchment  concealed  a  trans- 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


action  of  the  meanest  and  the  most  fraudulent 
kind. 

I  had  not  formed  this  conclusion  in  conse- 
quence of  Sir  Fercival's  refusal  to  show  the 
writing,  or  to  explain  it ;  for  that  refusal  might 
well  have  proceeded  from  his  obstinate  disposi- 
tion and  his  domineering  temper  alone.  My 
sole  motive  for  distrusting  his  honesty  sprang 
from  the  change  which  I  had  observed  in  his 
language  and  his  manners  at  Blackwater  Park, 
a  change  which  convinced  me  that  he  had  been 
acting  a  part  throughout  the  whole  period  of 
his  probation  at  Limmeridge  House.  His  elabo- 
rate delicacy  ;  his  ceremonious  politeness,  which 
harmonized  so  agreeal)ly  with  Mr.  Gilmore's 
old-fashioned  notions  ;  his  modesty  with  Laura, 
his  candor  witli  me,  his  moderation  with  Mr. 
Fairlie — all  these  were  the  artifices  of  a  mean, 
cunning,  and  brutal  man,  who  had  dropped  his 
disguise  when  his  practiced  duplicity  had  gained 
its  end,  and  had  openly  shown  himself  in  the 
library  on  that  very  day.  I  say  nothing  of  the 
grief  which  this  discovery  caused  me  on  Laura's 
account,  for  it  is  not  to  be  expressed  by  any 
words  of  mine.  I  only  refer  to  it  at  all  because 
it  decided  me  to  oppose  her  signing  the  parch- 
ment, whatever  the  consequences  might  be,  un- 
less she  was  first  made  acquainted  with  the  con- 
tents. 

Under  these  circumstances,  the  one  chance 
for  us,  when  to-morrow  came,  was  to  be  pro- 
vided with  an  objection  to  giving  the  signature, 
which  might  rest  on  sufficiently  firm  commer- 
cial or  legal  grounds  to  sliake  Sir  Percival's 
resolution,  and  to  make  him  suspect  that  we 
two  women  understood  the  laws  and  obliga- 
tions of  business  as  well  as  himself. 

After  some  pondering,  I  determined  to  write 
to  the  only  honest  man  within  reach  whom  we 
could  trust  to  help  us  discreetly  in  our  forlorn 
situation.  That  man  was  Mr.  Gilmore's  part- 
ner— who  conducted  the  business,  now  tliat  our 
old  friend  had  been  obliged  to  withdraw  from 
it,  and  to  leave  London  on  account  of  his  health. 
I  explained  to  Laura  that  I  had  Mr.  Gilmore's 
own  authority  for  placing  implicit  confidence  in 
his  partner's  integrity,  discretion,  and  accurate 
knowledge  of  all  her  affairs  ;  and,  with  her  full 
approval,  I  sat  down  at  once  to  write  the  letter. 

I  began  by  stating  our  position  to  him  exact- 
ly as  it  was ;  and  then  asked  for  his  advice  in  re- 
turn, expressed  in  plain,  downright  terms  which 
we  could  com])reheud  without  any  danger  of 
misinterpretations  and  mistakes.  My  letter  was 
as  short  as  I  could  possibly  make  it,  aud  was,  I 
hope,  unincumbered  by  needless  apologies  and 
needless  details. 

Just  as  I  was  about  to  put  the  address  on  the 
envelope  an  obstacle  was  discovered  by  Laura, 
which,  in  the  eftbrt  and  preoccu]jation  of  writ- 
ing, had  escaped  my  mind  altogether. 

"How  are  we  to  get  the  answer  in  time?" she 
asked.  "Your  letter  will  not  be  delivered  in 
London  before  to-morrow  morning,  and  the 
post  will  not  bring  the  reply  here  till  the  morn- 
ing after." 

The  only  way  of  overcoming  this  difficulty 
was  to  have  the  answer  brought  to  us  from  the 
lawyer's  office  by  a  special  messenger.  I  wrote 
a  postscript  to  that  effect,  begging  that  the  mes- 
senger might  be  dispatched  with  the  reply  by 
the  eleven  o'clock  morning  train,  which  would 


bring  him  to  our  station  at  twenty  minutes  past 
one,  and  so  enable  him  to  reach  Blackwater 
Park  liy  two  o'clock  at  the  latest.  He  was  to 
be  directed  to  ask  for  me,  to  answer  no  ques- 
tions addressed  to  him  by  any  one  else,  and  to 
deliver  his  letter  into  no  hands  but  mine. 

"In  case  Sir  Percival  should  come  back  to- 
morrow before  two  o'clock,"  I  said  to  Laura, 
"the  wisest  plan  for  you  to  adopt  is  to  be  out  in 
the  grounds  all  the  morning  M'ith  your  book  or 
your  work,  and  not  to  appear  at  the  house  till 
the  messenger  has  had  time  to  arrive  with  the 
letter.  I  will  wait  here  for  him  all  the  morn- 
ing to  guard  against  any  misadventures  or  mis- 
takes. By  following  this  arrangement  I  hope 
and  believe  we  shall  avoid  being  taken  by  sur- 
prise. Let  us  go  down  to  the  drawing-room 
now.  We  may  excite  suspicion  if  we  remain 
shut  up  together  too  long." 

"Suspicion?"  she  repeated.  "Whose  sus- 
picion can  we  excite  now  that  Sir  Percival  has 
left  the  house?     Do  you  mean  Count  Fosco?" 

"Perhaps  I  do,  Laura." 

"  You  are  beginning  to  dislike  him  as  much 
as  I  do,  Marian." 

"No;  not  to  dislike  him.  Dislike  is  always 
more  or  less  associated  with  contempt — I  can 
see  nothing  in  the  Count  to  despise." 

"You  are  not  afraid  of  him,  are  you?" 

"Perhaps  I  am — a  little." 

"  Afraid  of  him  after  his  interference  in  our 
favor  to-day !" 

"Yes.  I  am  more  afraid  of  his  interference 
than  I  am  of  Sir  Percival's  violence.  Kemem- 
ber  what  I  said  to  you  in  the  library.  What- 
ever you  do,  Laura,  don't  make  an  enemy  of 
the  Coimt!" 

We  went  down  stairs.  Laura  entered  the 
drawing-room,  while  I  proceeded  across  the 
hall,  with  my  letter  in  my  hand,  to  put  it  into 
the  post-bag,  which  hung  against  the  wall  op- 
posite to  me. 

The  house  door  was  open  ;  and,  as  I  crossed 
past  it,  I  saw  Count  Fosco  and  his  wife  stand- 
ing talking  together  on  the  steps  outside,  with 
their  faces  turned  toward  me. 

The  Countess  came  into  the  hall  rather  hasti- 
ly, and  asked  if  I  had  leisure  enough  for  five 
minutes'  private  conversation.  Feeling  a  little 
surprised  by  such  an  appeal  from  such  a  person, 
I  put  my  letter  into  the  bag,  and  repliecl  that  I 
was  quite  at  her  disposal.  She  took  my  arm 
with  unaccustomed  friendliness  and  familiarity ; 
aud  instead  of  leading  me  into  an  empty  room, 
drew  me  out  with  her  to  the  belt  of  turf  which 
surrounded  the  large  fish-pond. 

As  we  passed  the  Count  on  the  steps  he 
bowed  and  smiled,  and  then  went  at  once  into 
the  house  ;  pushing  the  hall  door  to  after  him, 
but  not  actually  closing  it. 

The  Countess  walked  me  gently  round  the 
fish-pond.  I  expected  to  be  made  the  deposi- 
tary of  some  extraordinary  confidence  ;  and  I 
was  astonished  to  find  that  JMadame  Fosco's 
communication  for  my  private  ear  was  nothing 
more  than  a  polite  assurance  of  her  sympathy 
for  me,  after  what  had  happened  in  the  library. 
Her  husband  had  told  her  of  all  that  had  pass- 
ed, and  of  the  insolent  manner  in  which  Sir 
Percival  had  sjioken  to  me.  This  information 
had  so  shocked  and  distressed  her,  on  my  ac- 
count and  on  Laura's,  that  she  had  made  up 


106 


THE  WOMA^  IN  WHITE. 


lier  inind,  if  any  thing  of  tlie  sort  liajipened 
iigain,  to  mark  lier  sense  of  Sir  Percival's  out- 
rageous conduct  by  leaving  the  house.  Tlie 
Count  had  approved  of  her  idea,  and  she  now 
hoped  tliat  I  approved  of  it  too. 

I  thonglit  this  a  very  strange  proceeding  on 
the  part  of  such  a  remarkably  reserved  woman 
as  Madame  Fosco — especially  after  the  inter- 
change of  sharp  speeches  which  had  passed  be- 
tween us  during  the  conversation  in  the  boat- 
house  on  that  very  morning.  However,  it  was 
my  ])lain  duty  to  meet  a  jwlite  and  friendly  ad- 
vance, on  the  part  of  one  of  my  elders,  with  a 
polite  and  friendly  reply.  I  answered  the 
Countess,  accordingly,  in  her  own  tone ;  and 
then,  thinking  we  had  said  all  that  was  neces- 
sary on  eitlicr  side,  made  an  attempt  to  get 
back  to  tlie  house. 

But  Madame  Fosco  seemed  resolved  not  to 
jiart  with  me,  and,  to  my  unspeakable  amaze- 
ment, resolved  also  to  talk.  Hitherto  the  most 
silent  of  women,  she  now  persecuted  me  with 
Huent  conventionalities  on  the  suliject  of  mar- 
ried life,  on  the  subject  of  Sir  I'ercival  and 
I^aura,  on  the  subject  of  her  own  haiijiiness,  on 
the  subject  of  the  late  JMr.  Fairlie's  conduct  to 
her  in  the  matter  of  her  legacy,  and  on  half  a 
dozen  other  subjects  besides,  initil  she  had  de- 
tained me,  walking  round  and  round  tlic  fish- 


pond, for  more  than  half  an  hour,  and  had  quite 
wearied  me  out.  Whether  she  discovered  this 
or  not  I  can  not  say,  but  she  stopped  as  abrupt- 
ly as  she  had  begun — looked  toward  the  house 
door — resumed  her  icy  manner  in  a  moment — 
and  dropped  my  arm  of  her  own  accord,  before 
I  could  think  of  an  excuse  for  accomplishing  my 
own  release  from  her. 

As  I  pushed  ojjen  the  door  and  entered  the 
hall  I  found  myself  suddenly  face  to  face  with 
the  Count  again.  He  was  just  putting  a  letter 
into  the  ])ost-bag. 

After  he  had  dropped  it  in,  and  had  closed 
the  bag,  he  asked  me  where  I  had  left  Madame 
Fosco.  I  told  him,  and  he  went  out  at  the 
hall  door  immediately  to  join  his  wife.  His 
manner,  when  he  sjjoke  to  me,  was  so  unusual- 
ly quiet  and  subdued  that  I  turned  and  looked 
after  him,  wondering  if  he  were  ill  or  out  of 
spirits. 

Why  my  next  proceeding  was  to  go  straight 
up  to  the  post-bag  and  take  out  my  own  letter, 
and  look  at  it  again,  with  a  vague  distrust  on 
me ;  and  wliy  the  looking  at  it  for  the  second 
time  instantly  suggested  the  idea  to  my  mind 
of  sealing  the  envelope  for  its  greater  security 
— are  mysteries  which  are  either  too  deep  oV 
too  shallow  for  me  to  fathom.  Women,  as 
every  body  knows,  constantly  act  on  impulses 
which  they  can  not  exjjlain  even  to  themselves; 
and  I  can  only  su])pose  that  one  of  those  im- 
pulses was  the  hidden  cause  of  my  unaccount- 
able conduct  on  this  occasion. 

Whatever  influence  animated  me,  I  found 
cause  to  congratulate  myself  on  having  obeyed 
it,  as  soon  as  I  prepared  to  seal  the  letter  in  my 
own  room.  I  had  originally  closed  the  envelope, 
in  the  nsual  way,  by  moistening  the  adliesive 
point  and  pressing  it  on  the  paper  beneath  ;  and. 
when  I  now  tried  it  with  mj'  finger,  after  a  lapse 
of  full  three-quarters  of  an  hour,  the  envelope 
opened  on  the  instant,  without  sticking  or  tear- 
ing. Perhaps  I  had  fastened  it  insufficiently  V 
Perhaps  there  might  have  been  some  defect  in 
the  adhesive  gum? 

Or,  perhaps No !    it    is    quite    revolting 

enough  to  feel  that  third  conjecture  stirring  in 
my  mind.  I  would  rather  not  see  it  confronting 
me  in  ]jlain  black  and  white. 

I  almost  dread  to-morrow — so  much  depends 
on  my  discretion  and  self-control.  There  are 
two  precautions,  at  all  events,  which  I  am  sure 
not  to  forget.  I  must  be  careful  to  keep  uj) 
friendly  a])pearances  with  the  Count,  and  I 
must  be  well  on  my  guard  when  the  messenger 
from  tlie  ofhce  comes  here  with  the  answer  to 
my  letter. 

When  the  dinner  hour  brought  us  together 
again,  Count  Fosco  was  in  his  usual  excellent 
spirits.  He  exerted  liiniself  to  interest  and 
amuse  us,  as  if  he  was  determined  to  eflace  from 
our  memories  all  recollection  of  what  had  pass- 
ed in  the  library  that  afternoon.  Lively  descrip- 
tions of  his  adventures  in  traveling;  amusing 
anecdotes  of  remarkable  people  whom  he  had 
met  with  abroad ;  (juaiut  comparisons  between 
the  social  customs  of  various  nations,  illustrated 
by  exam])les  drawn  from  men  and  women  in- 
discriminately all  over  Euro])c;  humorous  con- 
fessions of  the  innocent  follies  of  his  own  early 
life,  when  he  ruled  the  fashions  of  a  second- 
rate  Italian  town,  and  wrote  ]ircposterous  ro- 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


107 


mances,  on  the  French  model,  for  a  second-rate 
Itahan  newspaper — all  flowed  in  succession  so 
easily  and  so  ^ayly  from  his  lips,  and  all  ad- 
dressed our  various  curiosities  and  various  inter- 
ests so  directly  and  so  delicately,  that  Laura  and 
I  listened  to  him  with  as  much  attention,  and, 
inconsistent  as  it  may  seem,  with  as  much  ad- 
miration also  as  Madame  Fosco  herself.  Wo- 
men can  resist  a  man's  love,  a  man's  fame,  a 
man's  personal  appearance,  and  a  man's  mon- 
ey ;  but  they  can  not  resist  a  man's  tongue, 
when  he  knows  how  to  talk  to  them. 

After  dinner,  while  the  favorable  impression 
which  he  had  ])roduced  on  us  was  still  vivid  in 
our  minds,  the  Count  modestly  withdrew  to  read 
in  the  library.  Laura  proposed  a  stroll  in  the 
2;rounds  to  enjoy  the  close  of  the  long  evening. 
It  was  necessary,  in  common  politeness,  to  ask 
Madame  Fosco  to  join  us  ;  but  this  time  she  had 
apparently  received  her  orders  beforehand,  and 
slie  begged  we  would  kindly  excuse  her.  "  The 
Count  will  probably  want  a  fresh  supply  of  cigar- 
ettes," she  remarked,  by  way  of  apology  ;  "  and 
nobody  can  make  them  to  his  satisfaction  but 
myself."  Her  cold  blue  eyes  almost  warmed  as 
she  spoke  the  words — she  looked  actually  proud 
of  being  the  officiating  medium  through  which 
her  lord  and  master  composed  himself  with  to- 
bacco-smoke ! 

Laura  and  I  went  out  together  alone. 

It  was  a  misty,  heavy  evening.  There  was  a 
sense  of  blight  in  the  air ;  the  flowers  were 
drooping  in  the  garden,  and  the  ground  was 
jiarched  and  dewless.  The  western  heaven,  as 
we  saw  it  over  the  quiet  trees,  was  of  a  pale  yel- 
low hue,  and  the  sun  was  setting  faintly  in  a 
haze.  Coming  rain  seemed  near  :  it  would  fall 
probably  with  the  fall  of  night. 

"Which  way  shall  we  go?"  I  asked. 

"Toward  the  lake,  Marian,  if  you  like,"  she 
answered. 

"You  seem  unaccountably  fond,  Laura,  of 
that  dismal  lake." 

"No;  not  of  the  lake,  but  of  the  scenery 
about  it.  The  sand  and  heath,  and  the  fir- 
trees,  are  the  only  objects  I  can  discover,  in  all 
this  large  place,  to  remind  me  of  Limmeridge. 
But  we  will  walk  in  some  other  direction  if  you 
prefer  it." 

"I  have  no  favorite  walks  at  Blackwater 
Park,  my  love.  One  is  the  same  as  another  to 
me.  Let  us  go  to  the  lake — we  may  find  it  cool- 
er in  the  open  space  than  we  find  it  here." 

We  walked  through  the  shadowy  ])lantation 
in  silence.  The  heaviness  in  the  evening  air  op- 
pressed us  both  ;  and  when  we  reached  the  boat- 
iiouse,  we  were  glad  to  sit  down  and  rest  inside. 

A  white  fog  hung  low  over  the  lake.  The 
dense  brown  line  of  the  trees  on  the  opposite 
bank  appeared  above  it  like  a  dwarf  forest  float- 
ing in  the  sky.  The  sandy  ground,  shelving 
downward  from  where  we  sat,  was  lost  myste- 
riously in  the  outward  layers  of  the  fog.  The 
silence  was  horrible.  No  rustling  of  the  leaves 
■ — no  bird's  note  in  the  wood — no  cry  of  water- 
fowl from  the  pools  of  the  hidden  lake.  Even 
the  croaking  of  the  frogs  had  ceased  to-night. 

"It  is  very  desolate  and  gloomy,"  said  Laura. 
"But  we  can  be  more  alone  here  than  any 
where  else." 

She  spoke  quietly,  and  looked  at  the  wilder- 
ness of  sand  and  mist  with  steady,  thoughtful 


eyes.  I  could  see  .hat  her  mind  was  too  much 
occupied  with  its  own  thoughts  to  feel  the  dreary 
impressions  from  without,  which  had  fastened 
themselves  already  on  mine. 

"I  promised,  Marian,  to  tell  you  the  truth 
about  my  married  life,  instead  of  leaving  you 
any  longer  to  guess  it  for  yourself,"  she  began. 
"  That  secret  is  the  first  I  have  ever  had  from 
you,  love,  and  I  am  determined  it  shall  be  the 
last.  I  was  silent,  as  you  know,  for  your  sake — 
and  perhaps  a  little  for  my  own  sake  as  well. 
It  is  very  hard  for  a  woman  to  confess  that  tiie 
nu\n  to  whom  she  has  given  her  whole  life  is 
the  man  of  all  others  who  cares  least  for  the 
gift.  If  you  were  married  yourself,  Marian — 
and  es])ecially  if  you  were  hapjjily  married — you 
would  feel  for  me  as  no  single  woman  can  feel, 
however  kind  and  true  she  may  be." 

What  answer  could  I  make?  I  could  only 
take  her  hand,  and  look  at  her  with  my  whole 
heart,  as  well  as  my  eyes  would  let  me. 

"How  often,"  she  went  on,  "I  have  heard 
yon  laughing  over  what  you  used  to  call  your 
'  poverty  !'  how  often  you  have  made  me  mock 
speeches  of  congratulation  on  my  wealth  !  Oh, 
Marian,  never  laugh  again.  Thank  God  for  your 
poverty — it  has  made  you  your  own  mistress, 
and  has  saved  you  from  the  lot  that  has  fallen 
on  ?«e." 

A  sad  beginning  on  the  lips  of  a  young  wife  I 
— sad  in  its  quiet,  plain-spoken  truth.  The  few 
days  we  had  all  passed  together  at  Blackwater 
Park  had  been  many  enough  to  show  me — to 
show  any  one — what  her  husband  had  married 
her  for. 

"You  shall  not  be  distressed,"  she  said,  "by 
hearing  how  soon  my  disappointments  and  my 
trials  began — or  even  by  knowing  what  they 
were.  It  is  bad  enough  to  have  them  on  vvi 
memory.  If  I  tell  you  how  he  received  the  first , 
and  last,  attempt  at  remonstrance  that  I  ever 
made,  you  will  know  how  he  has  always  treated 
me,  as  well  as  if  I  had  described  it  in  so  many 
words.  It  was  one  day  at  Kome,  when  we  had 
ridden  out  together  to  the  tomb  of  Cecilia  Me- 
tella.  The  sky  was  calm  and  lovely — and  the 
grand  old  ruin  looked  beautiful — and  the  re- 
membrance that  a  husband's  love  had  raised  it 
in  the  old  time  to  a  wife's  memory  made  me 
feel  more  tenderly  and  more  anxiously  toward 
my  husband  than  I  had  ever  felt  yet.  '  Would 
you  build  such  a  tomb  for  me,  Percival  ?'  I  asked 
him.  'You  said  yon  loved  me  dearly,  before 
we  were  married ;  and  yet,  since  that  time — '  I 
could  get  no  farther.  Marian  !  he  was  not  even 
looking  at  me  !  I  pulled  down  my  vail,  think- 
ing it  best  not  to  let  him  see  that  the  tears  were 
in  my  eyes.  I  fancied  he  had  not  paid  any  at- 
tention to  me;  but  he  had.  He  said,  'Come 
away,'  and  laughed  to  himself,  as  he  helped  me 
on  to  my  horse.  He  mounted  his  own  horse, 
and  laughed  again  as  we  rode  away.  'If  I  do 
build  you  a  tomb,'  he  said,  'it  will  be  done  with 
your  own  money.  I  wonder  whether  Cecilia 
Metella  had  a  fortune  and  paid  for  hers.'  I 
made  no  reply — how  could  I,  when  I  was  crying 
behind  my  vail?  'Ah,  you  light-complexioned 
women  are  all  sulky,'  he  said.  'What  do  yon 
want?  compliments  and  soft  speeches?  Weill 
I'm  in  a  good  humor  this  morning.  Consider 
the  compliments  ])aid,  and  the  speeches  said.' 
Men  little  know,  when  they  say  hard  things  to 


108 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


us,  how  well  we  remember  them,  and  how  much 
harm  they  do  us.  It  would  have  been  better 
for  me  if  I  had  gone  on  crying;  but  his  con- 
tempt dried  up  my  tears  and  hardened  my  heart. 
From  that  time,  Marian,  I  never  checked  my- 
self again  in  thinking  of  Walter  Hartright.  I 
let  the  memory  of  those  happy  days,  when  we 
were  so  fond  of  each  other  in  secret,  come  back 
and  comfort  me.  What  else  had  I  to  look  to 
for  consolation  ?  If  we  had  been  together,  you 
would  have  helped  me  to  better  things.  I  know 
it  was  wrong,  darling — but  tell  me  if  I  was 
wrong,  without  any  excuse." 

I  was  obliged  to  turn  my  face  from  her. 
"  Don't  ask  me !"  I  said.  "  Have  I  suffered  as 
vou  have  suffered?  What  rigiit  have  I  to  de- 
cide?" 

"I  used  to  think  of  him,"  she  pursued,  drop- 
ping her  voice,  and  moving  closer  to  me — "I 
used  to  think  of  him  when  Percival  left  me 
alone  at  night  to  go  among  the  Opera  people. 
I  used  to  fancy  what  I  might  have  been,  if  it 
had  pleased  God  to  bless  me  with  poverty,  and 
if  I  had  been  his  wife.  I  used  to  see  myself  in 
my  neat  cheap  gown,  sitting  at  home  and  wait- 
ing for  him,  while  he  was  earning  our  bread — 
sitting  at  home  and  working  for  him,  and  lov- 
ing him  all  the  better  because  I  had  to  work  for 
him — seeing  him  come  in  tired,  and  taking  off 
his  hat  and  coat  for  him — and,  INIarian,  pleas- 
ing him  with  little  dishes  at  dinner  that  I  had 
learned  to  make  for  his  sake.  Oh !  I  hope  he  is 
never  lonely  enough  and  sad  enough  to  think  of 
me,  and  see  me,  as  I  have  thought  of  Inm  and 
seen  him!" 

As  she  said  those  melancholy  words  all  the 
lost  tenderness  returned  to  her  voice,  and  all 
the  lost  beauty  trembled  back  into  her  face. 
Her  eyes  rested  as  lovingly  on  the  blighted, 
solitary,  ill-omened  view  before  us  as  if  they 
saw  the  friendly  hills  of  Cumberland  in  the  dim 
and  threatening  sky. 

"Don't  speak  of  Walter  any  more,"  I  said, 
as  soon  as  I  could  control  myself.  "  Oh,  Lau- 
ra, spare  us  both  the  wretchedness  of  talking  of 
him  now !" 

She  roused  herself,  and  looked  at  me  ten- 
derly. 

"i  would  rather  be  silent  about  him  for- 
ever," she  answered,  "than  cause  you  a  mo- 
ment's pain." 

"It  is  in  your  interests,"  I  pleaded;  "it  is 
for  your  sake  that  I  speak.  If  your  husband 
heard  you — " 

"It  would  not  surprise  him  if  he  did  hear 
me." 

She  made  that  strange  reply  with  a  weary 
calmness  and  coldness.  The  change  in  her 
manner,  when  she  gave  the  answer,  startled  me 
almost  as  much  as  the  answer  itself. 

"Not  surprise  him!"  I  repeated.  "Laura! 
remember  what  you  are  saying — vou  frighten 
me !" 

"  It  is  true,"  she  said ;  "  it  is  what  I  wanted 
to  tell  you  to-day  when  we  were  talking  in  your 
room.  My  only  secret,  when  I  ojiened  my  heart 
to  him  at  Linimeridge,  was  a  harmless  secret, 
Marian — you  said  so  yourself.  The  name  was 
all  I  kej)t  from  him,  and  he  has  discovered  it." 

I  heard  her;  but  1  could  say  nothing.  Her 
last  words  had  killed  the  little  hope  tluit  still 
lived  in  me. 


"  It  happened  at  Eome,"  she  went  on,  as 
wearily  calm  and  cold  as  ever.  "We  were  at 
a  little  party  given  to  the  English  by  some 
friends  of  Sir  Percival's — JNIr.  and  Mrs.  Mark- 
land.  Mrs.  Markland  had  the  reputation  of 
sketching  very  beautifully,  and  some  of  the 
guests  prevailed  on  her  to  show  us  her  draw- 
ings. We  all  admired  them — but  something  I 
said  attracted  her  attention  particularly  to  me. 
'  Surely  you  draw  yourself?'  she  asked.  '  I 
used  to  draw  a  little  once,'  I  answered ;  'but  I 
have  given  it  up.'  '  If  you  have  once  drawn,' 
she  said,  '  you  may  take  to  it  again  one  of  these 
days ;  and  if  you  do,  I  wish  you  would  let  me 
recommend  you  a  master.'  I  said  nothing — 
you  know  why,  Marian — and  tried  to  change 
the  conversation.  But  Mrs.  Markland  persist- 
ed. '  I  have  had  all  sorts  of  teachers,'  she 
went  on,  '  but  the  best  of  all,  the  most  intelli- 
gent, and  the  most  attentive,  was  a  Mr.  Hart- 
right.  If  you  ever  take  up  your  drawing  agiiin, 
do  try  him  as  a  master.  He  is  a  young  man — 
modest  and  gentlemanlike — I  am  sure  you  will 
like  him.'  Think  of  those  words  being  spoken 
to  me  publicly,  in  the  presence  of  strangers — 
strangers  who  had  been  invited  to  meet  the 
bride  and  bridegroom !  I  did  all  I  could  to  con- 
trol myself — I  said  nothing,  and  looked  down 
close  at  the  drawings.  When  I  ventured  to  raise 
my  head  again  my  eyes  and  my  husband's  eyes 
met,  and  I  knew  by  his  look  that  my  face  had 
betrayed  me.  '  We  will  see  about  Mr.  Hart- 
right,'  he  said,  looking  at  me  all  the  time, 
'  when  we  get  back  to  England.  I  agree  with 
you,  Mrs.  Markland  —  I  think  Lady  Clyde  is 
sure  to  like  him.'  He  laid  an  emphasis  on  the 
last  words  which  made  my  cheeks  burn,  and  set 
my  heart  beating  as  if  it  would  stifle  me.  No- 
thing more  was  said  —  we  came  away  early. 
He  was  silent  in  the  carriage,  driving  back  to 
the  hotel.  He  helped  me  out,  and  followed  me 
up  stairs  as  usual.  But  the  moment  we  were  in 
the  drawing-room  he  locked  the  door,  pushed 
me  down  into  a  chair,  and  stood  over  me  with 
his  hands  on  my  shoulders.  'Ever  since  that 
morning  when  you  made  your  audacious  con- 
fession to  me  at  Limmeridge,'  he  said,  '  I  have 
wanted  to  find  out  the  man ;  and  I  found  him 
in  your  face  to-night.  Your  drawing-master 
was  the  man ;  and  his  name  is  Hartright.  You 
shall  repent  it,  and  he  shall  repent  it,  to  the  last 
hour  of  your  lives.  Now  go  to  bed,  and  dream 
of  him,  if  you  like — with  the  marks  of  my  horse- 
whip on  his  shoulders.'  Whenever  he  is  angry 
with  me  now,  he  refers  to  what  I  acknowledged 
to  him  in  your  presence  with  a  sneer  or  a  threat. 
I  have  no  power  to  prevent  him  from  putting 
his  own  horrible  construction  on  the  confidence 
I  ])laced  in  him.  I  have  no  influence  to  make 
him  believe  me  or  to  keep  him  silent.  You 
looked  surprised  to-day  when  you  heard  him  tell 
me  that  I  had  made  a  virtue  of  necessity  in  mar- 
rying him.  You  will  not  be  surprised  again  when 
you  hear  him  rc]5eat  it  the  next  time  he  is  out 
of  temper — oh,  Marian!  don't!  don't !  you  hurt 
me !" 

I  had  caught  her  in  my  arms,  and  the  sting 
and  torment  of  my  remorse  had  closed  them 
round  her  like  a  vice.  Yes !  my  remorse.  The 
white  despair  of  Walter's  face,  when  my  cruel 
words  struck  him  to  the  heart  in  the  summer- 
house  at  Limmeridge,  rose  before  me  in  nuite, 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


109 


"hush!"  she  whispered;  "i  hear  something  behind  us." 


unendurable  reproach.  My  Iiand  had  pointed 
the  way  which  led  the  man  my  sister  loved,  step 
by  step,  far  from  his  country  and  his  friends. 
Between  those  two  young  hearts  I  had  stood  to 
sunder  them  forever,  the  one  from  the  other — 
and  his  life  and  her  life  lay  wasted  before  me, 
alike,  in  witness  of  the  deed.  I  had  done  this, 
and  done  it  for  Sir  Percival  Glyde, 
For  Sir  Percival  Glyde. 

I  heard  her  speaking,  and  I  knew  by  the  tone 
of  her  voice  that  she  was  comforting  me — /, 
who  deserved  nothing  but  the  reproacli  of  her 
silence !  How  long  it  was  before  I  mastered 
the  absorbing  misery  of  my  own  thoughts  I  can 
not  tell.  I  was  first  conscious  that  she  was  kiss- 
ing me ;  and  then  my  eyes  seemed  to  wake  on 
a  sudden  to  their  sense  of  outward  things,  and 
I  knew  that  I  was  looking  meclianically  straight 
before  me  at  the  prospect  of  the  lake. 

"It  is  late,"  I  heard  her  whisjier.  "It  will 
be  dark  in  the  plantation."  She  shook  my  arm, 
and  repeated,  "Marian!  it  will  be  dark  in  the 
plantation." 

"  Give  me  a  minute  longer,"  I  said — "  a  min- 
ute to  get  better  in." 

I  was  afraid  to  trust  myself  to  look  at  her  yet, 
and  I  kept  my  eyes  fixed  on  the  view. 


It  toas  late.  The  dense  brown  line  of  trees 
in  the  sky  had  faded  in  the  gathering  darkness, 
to  the  faint  resemblance  of  a  long  wreath  of 
smoke.  The  mist  over  the  lake  below  had 
stealthily  enlarged,  and  advanced  on  us.  The 
silence  was  as  breathless  as  ever — biit  the  hor- 
ror of  it  had  gone,  and  the  solemn  mystery  of 
its  stillness  was  all  that  remained. 

"  We  are  far  from  the  house,"  she  whispered. 
"  Let  us  go  back." 

She  stopped  suddenly,  and  turned  her  face 
from  me  toward  the  entrance  of  tlie  boat-house. 

"Marian!"  she  said,  trembling  violently. 
"Do  you  see  nothing?     Look!" 

"Where?" 

"Down  there,  below  us." 

She  pointed.  My  eyes  followed  her  hand, 
and  I  saw  it  too. 

A  living  figure  was  moving  over  the  waste  of 
heath  in  the  distance.  It  crossed  our  range 
of  view  from  tlie  boat-house,  and  passed  darkly 
along  the  outer  edge  of  the  mist.  It  stopped, 
far  oflp,  in  front  of  us — waited — and  passed  on ; 
moving  slowly,  with  the  white  cloud  of  mist  be- 
hind it  and  above  it — slowly,  slowly,  till  it  glided 
by  the  edge  of  the  boat-house,  and  we  saw  it  no 
more. 

We  were  both  unnerved  by  what  had  passed 


no 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


lietween  iis  that  evening.  Some  minutes  elapsed 
before  Laura  would  venture  into  the  plantation, 
and  before  I  could  make  up  my  mind  to  lead  her 
back  to  the  house. 

"Was  it  a  man  or  a  woman?"  she  asked,  in 
a  whisper,  as  we  moved  at  last  into  the  dark 
dampness  of  the  outer  air. 
"I  am  not  certain." 
"Which  do  you  think?" 
"It  looks  like  a  woman." 
"I  was  afraid  it  was  a  man  in  a  long  cloak." 
"It  may  be  a  man.     In  this  dim  light  it  is 
not  possible  to  be  certain." 

"  Wait,  Marian  !  I'm  frightened — I  don't  see 
the  path.  Suppose  the  tignre  should  follow  us?" 
"Not  at  all  likely,  Laura.  There  is  really 
nothing  to  be  alarmed  about.  The  shores  of  the 
hdvc  are  not  far  from  the  village,  and  they  are 
free  to  any  one  to  walk  on  by  day  or  night.  It 
is  only  wonderful  we  have  seen  no  living  creat- 
ure there  before." 

We  were  now  in  the  plantation.  It  was  very 
dark — so  dark  that  we  found  some  dii^iculty  in 
keeping  the  path.  I  gave  Laura  my  arm,  and 
we  walked  as  fast  as  we  could  on  our  way  back. 
Before  we  were  half-way  through  she  stopped, 
and  forced  me  to  stop  with  her.  She  was  list- 
cuing. 

"Hush  !"  she  whispered;  "I  hear  something 
behind  us." 

"Dead  leaves,"  I  said,  to  cheer  her,  "or  a 
twig  blown  off  the  trees." 

"  It  is  summer  time,  Marian  ;  and  there  is 
not  a  breath  of  wind.     Listen  !" 

I  heard  the  sound,  too — a  sound  like  a  light 
footstep  following  us. 

"No  matter  who  it  is,  or  what  it  is,"  I  said  ; 
"let  us  walk  on.  In  another  minute,  if  there 
is  any  thing  to  alarm  us,  we  shall  be  near  enough 
to  the  house  to  be  heard." 

We  went  on  quickly — so  quickly  that  Laura 
was  breathless  by  the  time  we  were  nearl}' 
through  the  plantation,  and  within  sight  of  the 
lighted  windows. 

I  waited  a  moment  to  give  her  breathing- 
time.  Just  as  we  were  about  to  proceed  she 
stopped  me  again,  and  signed  to  me  with  her 
iiand  to  listen  once  more.  We  both  heard  dis- 
tinctly a  long,  heavy  sigh  behind  us  in  the 
black  depths  of  the  trees. 

"Who's  there?"  I  called  out. 
'There  was  no  answer. 
"Who's  there?"  I  repeated. 
An  instant  of  silence  followed  ;  and  then  we 
Tieard  the  light  fall  of  the  footsteps  again,  fainter 
!;nd  fainter — sinking  awa)^  into  the  darkness — 
sinking,  sinking,  sinking — till  they  were  lost  in 
the  silence. 

We  hurried  out  from  the  trees  to  the  open 
lawn  beyond,  crossed  it  rapidly,  and  without  an- 
other word  passing  between  us  reached  the  house. 
In  the  light  of  the  hall-lamp  Laura  looked  at 
me,  with  white  cheeks  and  startled  eyes. 

"I  am  half  dead  with  fear,"  she  said.  "Who 
could  it  have  been  ?" 

"  We  will  try  to  guess  to-morrow,"  I  replied. 
"In  the  mean  time  say  notliing  to  any  one 
of  what  we  have  heard  and  seen." 
"Why  not?" 

"  Because  silence  is  safe — and  we  have  need 
of  safety  in  this  house." 

I  sent  Laura  up  stairs  immediately,  waited 


a  minute  to  take  off  my  hot  and  put  my  hair 
smooth,  and  tlien  went  at  once  to  make  my  first 
investigations  in  the  library  on  pretense  of 
searching  for  a  book. 

There  sat  the  Count,  filling  out  the  largest 
easy-chair  in  the  house;  smoking  and  reading 
calmly,  with  his  feet  on  an  ottoman,  his  cravat 
across  his  knees,  and  his  shirt  collar  wide  open. 
And  there  sat  INIadame  Fosco,  like  a  c[uiet  child, 
on  a  stool  by  his  side,  making  cigarettes.  Nei- 
ther husband  nor  wife  could  by  any  possibility 
have  been  out  late  that  evening,  and  have  just 
got  back  to  the  house  in  a  hurry.  I  felt  that 
mj^  object  in  visiting  the  library  was  answered 
the  moment  I  set  eyes  on  them. 

Count  Fosco  rose  in  ])olite  confusion,  and  tied 
his  cravat  on,  when  I  entered  the  room. 

"Fray  don't  let  me  disturb  you,"  I  said.  "I 
have  only  come  here  to  get  a  book." 

"All  unfortunate  men  of  my  size  suffer  from 
the  heat,"  said  the  Count,  refreshing  himself 
gravely  with  a  large  green  fan.  "  I  wish  I  could 
change  places  with  my  excellent  wife.  She  is 
as  cool  at  this  moment  as  a  f.sh  in  the  pond 
outside." 

The  Countess  allowed  herself  to  thaw  under 
the  influence  of  her  husband's  quaint  compari- 
son. "  I  am  never  warm.  Miss  Halcombe,"  she 
remarked,  with  the  modest  air  of  a  woman  who 
was  confessing  to  one  of  her  own  merits. 

"Have  you  and  Lady  Glyde  been  out  this 
evening?"  asked  the  Count  while  I  was  taking 
a  book  from  the  shelves  to  preserve  a])pearances. 
"Yes ;  we  went  out  to  get  a  little  air." 
"]\Iay  I  ask  in  what  direction?" 
"In  the  direction  of  the  lake — as  fa*'  as  the 
boat-house." 

"  Aha?  As  far  as  the  boat-house?" 
Under  other  circumstances  I  might  have  re- 
sented his  curiosity.  But  to-night  I  hailed  it 
as  another  proof  that  neither  he  nor  his  wife 
were  connected  with  the  mysterious  ajipearance 
at  the  lake. 

"No  more  adventures,  I  suppose,  this  even- 
ing?" he  went  on.  "No  more  discoveries,  like 
your  discovery  of  the  wounded  dog?" 

lie  fixed  his  unfathomable  gray  eyes  on  me. 
with  that  cold,  clear,  irresistible  glitter  in  them 
which  always  forces  me  to  look  at  him,  and  al- 
ways makes  me  uneasy  while  I  do  look.  An 
unutterable  suspicion  that  his  mind  is  ]>ryinp 
into  mine  overcomes  me  at  these  times ;  and  it 
overcame  me  now. 

"No,"  I  said,  shortly;  "no  adventures — no 
discoveries." 

I  tried  to  look  away  from  him  and  leave  the 
room.  Strange  as  it  seems,  I  hardly  think  I 
should  have  succeeded  in  the  aticnijit  if  M:v- 
damc  Fosco  had  not  helped  me  by  causing  him 
to  move  and  look  away  first. 

"Count,  you  are  keeping  Miss  Halcombe 
standing,"  she  said. 

The  moment  he  turned  round  to  get  me  a 
chair  I  seized  my  opportunity — thanked  him — 
made  my  excuses — and  slip])ed  out. 

An  hour  later,  when  Laura's  maid  haji]iened 
to  be  in  her  mistress's  room,  I  took  occasion  to 
refer  to  the  closeness  of  the  night,  with  a  view 
to  ascertaining  next  how  the  servants  had  been 
passing  their  time. 

"Have  you  been  sufTering  much  from  the 
heat  dtnvn  stairs?"  I  asked. 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


Ill 


Mlik 


i:i^.\\ 


"there  sat  the  count,"  etc. 


"No,  miss,"  suid  the  girl,  "we  have  not  felt 
it  to  speak  of." 

"  You  have  beeu  out  in  the  woods,  then,  I 
suppose?" 

"  8ome  of  us  thought  of  going,  miss.  But 
rook  said  she  should  take  her  chair  into  the 
cool  court-yard  outside  the  kitclicn  door;  and, 
on  second  thoughts,  all  the  rest  of  us  took  our 
chairs  out  there  too." 

The  housekeeper  was  now  the  only  person 
who  remained  to  be  accounted  for. 

"Is  Mrs.  Michelson  gone  to  bed  yet?"  I  in- 
quired. 

"I  should  think  not,  miss,"  said  the  girl, 
smiling.  "  Mrs.  Michelson  is  more  likely  to  be 
getting  up  just  now  than  going  to  bed." 

"Why?  What  do  you  m'ean?  Has  Mrs. 
Michelson  been  taking  to  her  bed  in  the  day- 
time ?" 

"No,  miss,  not  exactly,  but  the  next  thing 
to  it.  She's  been  asleep  all  the  evening  on  the 
sofa  in  her  own  room." 

Putting  together  what  I  obsen'ed  for  myself 
in  the  library  and  what  I  have  just  heard  from 
Laura's  maid,  one  conclusion  seems  inevitable. 
The  figure  we  saw  at  the  lake  was  not  the  figure 
of  Madame  Fosco,  of  her  husband,  or  of  any  of 
the  servants.     The  footsteps  we  heard  behind 


us  were  not  the  footsteps  of  any  one  belonging 
to  the  house. 

Who  could  it  have  been? 

It  seems  useless  to  inquire.  I  can  not  even 
decide  whether  the  figure  was  a  man's  or  a  wo- 
man's. I  can  only  say  that  I  think  it  was  a 
woman's. 

July  ith.  The  misery  of  self-reproach  which 
I  suffered  yesterday  evening,  on  hearing  what 
Laura  told  me  in  the  boat-hou=e,  returned  in 
the  loneliness  of  the  night,  and  kept  me  waking 
and  wretched  for  hours. 

I  lighted  the  candle  at  last,  and  searched 
through  my  old  journals  to  see  what  my  share 
in  the  fatal  error  of  her  marriage  had  really 
been,  and  what  I  might  have  once  done  to  save 
her  from  it.  The  result  soothed  me  a  little;  for 
it  showed  that,  however  blindly  and  ignorantly 
I  acted,  I  acted  for  the  best.  Crying  generally 
does  me  harm ;  but  it  was  not  so  last  night — I 
think  it  relieved  me.  I  rose  this  morning  witli 
a  settled  resohuion  and  a  quiet  mind.  Nothing 
Sir  Percival  can  say  or  do  shall  ever  irritate  me 
again,  or  make  me  forget  for  one  moment  that 
I  am  staying  here,  in  defiance  of  mortifications, 
insults,  and  threats,  for  Laura's  service  and  for 
Laura's  sake. 


112 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


The  speculations  in  wliich  we  might  have  in- 
dulged this  morning  on  the  subject  of  the  fig- 
ure at  the  lake  and  the  footste])s  in  the  plant- 
ation, have  been  all  suspended  by  a  trifling  ac- 
cident which  has  caused  Laura  great  regret. 
She  has  lost  the  little  brooch  I  gave  her  for  a 
keepsake  on  the  day  before  her  marriage.  As 
she  wore  it  when  we  went  out  yesterday  even- 
ing, we  can  only  suppose  that  it  must  have 
dropped  from  her  dress  either  in  the  boat-house 
or  on  our  way  back.  The  servants  have  been 
sent  to  search  and  have  returned  unsuccessful. 
And  now  Laura  herself  has  just  gone  to  look  for 
it.  Whether  she  finds  it  or  not,  the  loss  will 
help  to  excuse  her  absence  from  the  house  if 
Sir  Percival  returns  before  the  letter  from  Mr. 
Gilmore's  partner  is  placed  in  my  hands. 

One  o'clock  has  just  struck.  I  am  consider- 
ing whether  I  had  better  wait  here  for  the  ar- 
rival of  tlie  messenger  from  London,  or  slip 
away  quietly,  and  watch  for  him  outside  the 
lodge-gate. 

My  suspicion  of  every  body  and  every  thing 
in  this  house  inclines  me  to  think  that  the  sec- 
ond plan  may  be  the  best.  The  Count  is  safe  in 
the  breakfast-room.  I  heard  him  througl?  the 
door,  as  I  ran  up  stairs  ten  minutes  sinc^ exer- 
cising his  canary-birds  at  their  trick*;:  "Come 
out  on  my  little  finger,  my  pret-pret-pretties! 
Come  out,  and  hop  up  stoh-s  !  One,  two,  three 
— and  up !  Three,  two,  one — and  down !  One, 
two,  three — twit-twit-twit-tweet !"  The  birds 
burst  into  their  usual  ecstasy  of  singing,  and 
the  Count  chirruped  and  whistled  at  them  in  re- 
turn, as  if  he  was  a  bird  himself.  My  room  door 
is  open,  and  I  can  hear  the  sin-ill  singing  and 
whistling  at  this  moment.  If  I  am  I'eally  to  slij) 
out  without  being  observed,  now  is  my  time. 

Four  o'clock.  I  come  back  to  this  journal 
with  sensations  filling  my  mind  which  it  would 
be  useless  for  any  woman  to  attempt  to  describe. 
The  three  hours  that  have  passed  since  I  made 
my  last  entry  have  turned  the  whole  march  of 
events  at  Blackwater  Park  in  a  new  direction. 
Whether  for  good  or  for  evil  I  can  not  and  dare 
not  decide. 

Let  me  get  back  first  to  the  place  at  which  I 
left  ofl^",  or  I  shall  lose  myself  in  the  confusion 
of  my  own  thoughts. 

I  went  out,  as  I  had  proposed,  to  meet  the 
messenger  with  my  letter  from  London,  at  the 
lodge-gate.  On  the  stairs  I  saw  no  one.  In 
the  hall  I  heard  the  Count  still  exercising  his 
birds.  But  on  crossing  the  quadrangle  outside 
I  passed  Madame  Fosco,  walking  by  herself  in 
her  favorite  circle,  round  and  round  the  great 
fish-pond.  I  at  once  slackened  my  pace  so  as 
to  avoid  all  apj^earance  of  being  in  a  hurry ; 
and  even  went  the  length,  for  caution's  sake,  of 
inquiring  if  she  thought  of  going  out  before 
lunch.  She  smiled  at  me  in  the  friendliest 
manner — said  she  preferred  remaining  near 
the  house — nodded  pleasantly — and  re-entered 
the  hall.  I  looked  back,  and  saw  that  she  had 
closed  the  door  before  I  had  opened  the  wicket 
by  the  side  of  the  carriage  gates. 

In  less  than  a  qixarter  of  an  hour  I  reached 
the  lodge. 

The  lane  outside  took  a  sudden  turn  to  the 
left,  ran  on  straight  for  a  hundred  yards  or  so, 
and  then  took  another  sharp  turn  to  the  riglit  to 


join  the  high  road.  Between  these  two  turns, 
hidden  from  the  lodge  on  one  side  and  from  the 
way  to  the  station  on  the  other,  I  waited,  walk- 
ing backward  and  forward.  High  hedges  were 
on  either  side  of  me,  and  for  twenty  minutes 
by  my  watch  I  neither  saw  nor  heard  any  thing. 
At  the  end  of  that  time  the  sound  of  a  carriage 
caught  my  ear,  and  I  was  met,  as  I  advanced 
toward  the  second  turning,  by  a  fly  from  the 
railway.  I  made  a  sign  to  the  di-iver  to  stop. 
As  he  obeyed  me  a  respectable-looking  man  put 
his  head  out  of  the  window  to  see  what  was  the 
matter. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  I  said ;  "  but  am  I  right 
in  su])]iosing  that  you  are  going  to  Blackwater 
Bark?" 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"With  a  letter  for  any  one?" 

"Willi  a  letter  for  Miss  Ilalcombe,  ma'am." 

"  You  may  give  me  the  letter.  I  am  Miss 
Ilalcombe." 

The  man  touched  his  hat,  got  out  of  the  fly 
immediately,  and  gave  me  the  letter. 

I  opened  it  at  once,  and  read  these  lines.  I 
copy  them  here  (without  the  address  to  me  or 
the  writer's  signature) ;  thinking  it  best  to  de- 
stroy the  original  for  caution's  sake. 

'^Private  and  Confidential. 

•'Dear  Madam, — Your  letter,  received  this 
morning,  has  caused  me  ver}'  great  anxiety.  I 
will  rejjly  to  it  as  briefly  and  plainly  as  possible. 

"My  careful  consideration  of  the  statement 
made  by  yourself,  and  my  knowledge  of  Lady 
Clyde's  position,  as  defined  in  the  settlement, 
lead  me,  I  regret  to  say,  to  the  conclusion  that 
a  loan  of  the  trust  money  to  Sir  Percival  (or, 
in  other  words,  a  loan  of  some  portion  of  the 
twenty  thousand  pounds  of  Lady  Clyde's  for- 
tune), is  in  contem])lation,  and  that  she  is  made 
a  party  to  the  deed  in  order  to  secure  her  ap 
proval  of  a  flagrant  breach  of  trust,  and  to  have 
her  signature  jiroduced  against  her  if  she  should 
complain  hereafter.  It  is  impossible,  on  any 
other  supposition,  to  account,  situated  as  she  is, 
for  her  execution  to  a  deed  of  any  kind  being 
wanted  at  all. 

"In  the  event  of  Lady  Clyde's  signing  such 
a  document  as  I  am  compelled  to  supjiose  the 
deed  in  question  to  be,  her  trustees  would  be  at 
liberty  to  advance  money  to  Sir  Percival  out  of 
her  twenty  thousand  ])ounds.  If  the  amount  so 
lent  should  not  be  paid  back,  and  if  Lady  Clyde 
should  have  children,  their  fortune  would  then 
be  diminished  by  the  sum,  large  or  small,  so 
advanced.  In  plainer  terms  still,  the  transac- 
tion, for  an}'  thing  Lady  Clyde  knows  to  the 
contrary,  niaj^  be  a  fraud  upon  her  unborn  chil- 
dren. 

"  Under  these  serious  circumstances  I  would 
recommend  Lady  Clyde  to  assign  as  a  reason 
for  withholding  her  signature,  that  she  wishes 
the  deed  to  be  first  submitted  to  myself,  as  her 
family  solicitor  (in  the  absence  of  my  ])artner, 
Mr.  (iilmore).  No  reasonable  objection  can  be 
made  to  taking  this  course — for,  if  the  trans- 
action is  an  honorable  one,  tliere  will  neces- 
sarily be  no  difiiculty  in  my  giving  my  aiijiroval. 

"  Sincerely  assuring  you  of  my  readiness  to 
aftbrd  any  additional  hclj)  or  advice  that  may 
be  wanted,  I  beg  to  remain,  Madam,  your  faith- 
ful servant,  " 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


113 


"are  tott  going  back  to  the  house,  miss  halcombe?" 


I  read  this  kind  and  sensible  letter  very 
thankfully.  It  supplied  Laura  with  a  reason 
for  objecting  to  the  signature  which  was  unan- 
swerable, and  which  we  could  both  of  us  under- 
stand. The  messenger  waited  near  me  while  I 
was  reading  to  receive  his  directions  when  I  had 
done. 

' '  Will  3''oxx  be  good  enough  to  say  that  I  un- 
derstand the  letter,  and  that  I  am  very  much 
obliged  ?"  I  said.  "  There  is  no  other  reply 
necessary  at  present." 

Exactly  at  the  moment  when  I  was  speaking 
these  words,  holding  the  letter  open  in  my  hand, 
Count  Fosco  turned  the  corner  of  the  lane  from 
the  high  road,  and  stood  before  me  as  if  he  had 
sprung  out  of  the  earth. 

The  suddenness  of  his  appearance,  in  the  very 
last  place  under  heaven  in  which  I  should  have 
expected  to  see  him,  took  me  completely  by  sur- 
prise. The  messenger  wished  me  good-morn- 
ing, and  got  into  the  fly  again.  I  could  not  say 
a  word  to  him — I  was  not  even  able  to  return 
his  bow.  The  conviction  that  I  was  discovered 
— and  by  tliat  man  of  all  others — absolutely 
petrified  me. 

"  Are  you  going  back  to  the  house,  Miss  Hal- 
combe?" he  inquired,  without  showing  the  least 
surprise  on  his  side,  and  without  even  looking 
H 


after  the  fly,  which  drove  off  while  he  was 
speaking  to  me. 

I  collected  myself  sufficiently  to  make  a  sign 
in  the  atflrmative. 

"I  am  going  back  too,"  he  said.  "Pray 
allow  me  the  pleasure  of  accompanying  you. 
Will  you  take  my  arm?  You  look  surprised  at 
seeing  me !" 

I  took  his  arm.  The  first  of  my  scattered 
senses  that  came  back  was  the  sense  that  warn- 
ed me  to  sacrifice  any  thing  rather  than  make 
an  enemy  of  him. 

"You  look  surprised  at  seeing  me!"  he  re- 
peated, in  his  quietly  pertinacious  way. 

"I  thought,  Count,  I  heard  you  with  your 
birds  in  the  breakfast-room,"  I  answered,  as 
quietly  and  firmly  as  I  could. 

"  Surely.  But  my  little  feathered  children, 
dear  lady,  are  only  too  like  other  children. 
They  have  their  days  of  perversity;  and  this 
morning  was  one  of  them.  JMy  wife  came  in, 
as  I  was  putting  them  back  in  their  cage,  and 
said  she  had  left  you  going  out  alone  for  a  walk. 
You  told  her  so,  did  you  not?" 

"Certainly." 

"Well,  Miss  Halcombe,  the  pleasure  of  ac- 
companying you  "was  too  great  a  temptation  for 
me  to  resist.     At  my  age  there  is  no  harm  in. 


114 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


confessing  so  mnch  as  that,  is  there?  I  seized 
my  hat,  and  set  off  to  offer  myself  as  your  es- 
cort. Even  so  fat  an  old  man  as  Fosco  is  sure- 
ly better  than  no  escort  at  all?  I  took  the 
wrong  path — I  came  back  in  despair — and  here 
I  am  arrived  (may  I  say  it?)  at  the  height  of 
my  wishes." 

He  talked  on  in  this  complimentary  strain, 
with  a  fluency  which  left  me  no  exertion  to 
make  beyond  the  eftbrt  of  maintaining  my  com- 
])osure.  He  never  referred  in  the  most  distant 
manner  to  what  he  had  seen  in  the  lane,  or  to 
the  letter  which  I  still  had  in  my  hand.  This 
ominous  discretion  helped  to  convince  me  that 
he  must  have  surprised,  by  the  most  dishonor- 
able means,  the  secret  of  mj^  application  in  Lau- 
ra's interests,  to  the  lawyer  ;  and  that,  having 
HOW  assured  himself  of  the  private  manner  in 
which  I  had  received  the  answer,  he  had  dis- 
covered enough  to  suit  his  purposes,  and  was 
only  bent  on  trying  to  quiet  the  suspicions  which 
he  knew  he  must  Iiave  aroused  in  my  mind.  I 
was  wise  enough,  under  these  circumstances,  not 
to  attempt  to  deceive  him  by  plausible  explana- 
tions— and  woman  enough,  notwithstanding  my 
dread  of  him,  to  feel  as  if  my  hand  was  tainted 
by  resting  on  his  arm. 

On  the  drive  in  front  of  the  house  we  met  the 
dog-cart  being  taken  round  to  the  stables.  Sir 
Percival  had  just  returned.  He  came  ont  to 
meet  us  at  the  house-door.  Whatever  other 
results  his  journey  might  have  had,  it  had  not 
ended  in  softening  his  savage  temper. 

"Oh!  here  are  two  of  you  come  back,"  he 
said,  with  a  lowering  face.  ' '  What  is  the  mean- 
ing of  the  house  being  deserted  in  this  wav  ? 
Where  is  Lady  Glyde?" 

I  told  him  of  the  loss  of  the  brooch,  and  said 
that  Laura  had  gone  into  the  plantation  to  look 
for  it. 

"Brooch  or  no  brooch,"  he  growled,  sulkily, 
"I  recommend  her  not  to  forget  her  appoint- 
ment in  the  library  this  afternoon.  I  shall  ex- 
pect to  see  her  in  half  an  hour." 

I  took  my  hand  from  the  Count's  arm,  and 
slowly  ascended  the  steps.  He  honored  me  with 
one  of  his  magnificent  bows,  and  then  address- 
ed himself  gayly  to  the  scowling  master  of  the 
house. 

"Tell  me,  Percival,"  he  said,  "have you  had 
a  pleasant  drive  ?  And  has  your  pretty  shining 
Brown  Molly  come  back  at  all  tired?" 

"Brown  Molly  be  hanged — and  the  drive 
too !     I  want  my  lunch." 

"And  I  want  five  minutes'  talk  with  you, 
Percival,  first,"  returned   the  Count.      "Five 
minutes'  talk,  mv  friend,  here  on  the  grass." 
"What  about'?" 

"About  business  that  very  much  concerns 
you." 

I  lingered  long  enough,  in  passing  through 
the  hall-door,  to  hear  this  question  and  answer, 
and  to  see  Sir  Percival  thrust  his  hands  into  his 
])0ckets  in  sullen  hesitation. 

"If  you  want  to  badger  me  with  any  more 
of  your  infernal  scruples,"  he  said,  "I,  for  one, 
won't  hear  them.     I  want  my  lunch !" 

"  Come  out  here  and  speak  to  me,"  repeated 
the  Count,  still  perfectly  uninfluenced  by  the 
rudest  speech  that  his  friend  could  make  to 
him. 

Sir  Percival  descended  the  steps.     The  Count 


took  him  hy  the  arm,  and  walked  him  away 
gently.  The  "business,"  I  was  sure,  referred 
to  the  question  of  the  signature.  They  were 
speaking  of  Laura  and  of  me  beyond  a  doubt. 
I  felt  heart-sick  and  faint  with  anxiety.  It 
might  be  of  the  last  importance  to  both  of  us  to 
know  what  they  were  saying  to  each  other  at 
that  moment — and  not  one  word  of  it  could  by 
any  possibility  reach  my  ears. 

I  walked  about  the  house,  from  room  to  room, 
with  the  lawyer's  letter  in  my  bosom  (I  was 
afraid  by  this  time  even  to  trust  it  under  lock 
and  key),  till  the  oppression  of  my  suspense 
half  maddened  me.  There  were  no  signs  of 
Laura's  return ;  and  I  thought  of  going  out  to 
look  for  her.  But  my  strength  was  so  exhausted 
by  the  tiials  and  anxieties  of  the  morning  that 
the  heat  of  the  day  quite  overpowered  me ;  and 
after  an  attempt  to  get  to  the  door  I  was  obliged 
to  return  to  the  drawing-room  and  lie  down  on 
the  nearest  sofa  to  recover. 

I  was  just  composing  myself  when  the  door 
opened  softly  and  the  Count  looked  in. 

"  A  thousand  pardons.  Miss  Halcombe,"  he 
said;  "I  only  venture  to  disturb  you  because  I 
am  the  bearer  of  good  news.  Percival — who  is 
capricious  in  every  thing,  as  you  know— has  seen 
fit  to  alter  his  mind  at  the  last  moment ;  and 
the  business  of  the  signature  is  put  oft'  for  the 
present.  A  great  relief  to  all  of  us,  i\Iiss  Hal- 
combe, as  I  see  with  pleasure  in  your  face. 
Pray  present  my  best  respects  and  felicitations 
when  you  mention  this  pleasant  change  of  cir- 
cumstances to  Lady  Glyde." 

He  left  me  before  I  had  recovered  my  aston- 
ishment. There  could  be  no  doubt  that  this 
extraordinary  alteration  of  purpose  in  the  mat- 
ter of  the  signature  was  due  to  his  influence ; 
and  that  his  discovery  of  my  application  to 
London  yesterday,  and  of  my  having  received 
an  answer  to  it  to-day,  had  offered  him  the 
means  of  interfering  with  certain  success. 

I  felt  these  impressions ;  but  my  mind  seem- 
ed to  share  the  exhaustion  of  my  body,  and  I 
was  in  no  condition  to  dwell  on  them,  with  any 
useful  reference  to  the  doubtful  present  or  the 
threatening  future.  I  tried  a  second  time  to 
run  out  and  find  Laura,  but  my  head  was  giddy 
and  my  knees  trembled  under  me.  There  was 
no  choice  but  to  give  it  up  again  and  return  to 
the  sofa,  sorely  against  my  will. 

The  quiet  in  the  house  and  the  low  murmur- 
ing hum  of  summer  insects  outside  the  open 
window  soothed  me.  My  eyes  closed  of  them- 
selves ;  and  I  passed  gradually  into  a  strange 
condition,  which  was  not  waking- — for  I  knew 
nothing  of  what  was  going  on  about  me ;  and 
not  sleeping — for  I  was  conscious  of  my  own 
repose.  In  this  state  my  fevered  mind  broke 
loose  from  me,  while  my  weary  body  was  at 
rest;  and  in  a  trance,  or  day-dream  of  my 
fancy — I  know  not  what  to  call  it — I  saw  Wal- 
ter Ilartright.  I  had  not  thought  of  him  since 
I  rose  that  morning;  Laura  had  not  said  one 
word  to  me  either  directly  or  indirectly  refer- 
ring to  him ;  and  yet  I  saw  him  now  as  plainly 
as  if  the  past  time  had  returned,  and  we  were 
both  together  again  at  Linnncridge  House. 

He  appeared  to  me  as  one  among  many  oth- 
er men,  none  of  whose  faces  I  could  jjlainly 
discern.  They  were  all  lying  on  the  steps  of 
an  immense  ruined  temple.     Colossal  trojiical 


THE  WOIVIAN  EST  WHITE. 


115 


;^ 


trees  —  with  rank  creepers  twining  endlessly 
about  their  trunks,  and  hideous  stone  idols 
glimmering  and  grinning  at  intervals  behind 
leaves  and  stalks  and  branches  —  surrounded 
tlie  temjile,  and  shut  out  the  sky,  and  threw  a 
dismal  shadow  over  the  forlorn  band  of  men  on 
tiie  steps.  White  exhalations  twisted  and  curl- 
ed up  stealthily  from  the  ground  ;  approached 
the  men  in  wreaths,  like  smoke  ;  touched  them .; 
and  stretched  them  out  dead,  one  by  one,  in  the 
])laces  where  they  lay.  An  agony  of  pity  and 
fear  for  Walter  loosened  my  tongue,  and  I  im- 
plored him  to  escape.  "  Come  back !  come 
hack!"  I  said.  "Remember  your  promise  to 
lier  and  to  me.  Come  back  to  us  before  the 
Pestilence  reaches  you  and  lays  you  dead  like 
the  rest!" 

He  looked  at  me  with  an  unearthly  quiet  in 
his  face.  "Wait,"  he  said.  "I  shall  come 
l)ack.  The  night  when  I  met  the  lost  Woman 
on  the  highway  was  the  night  which  set  my 
life  apart  to  be  the  instrument  of  a  Design  that 
is  yet  unseen.  Here,  lost  in  the  wilderness,  or 
there,  welcomed  back  in  the  land  of  my  birth, 
I  am  still  walking  on  the  dark  road  which  leads 
me,  and  you,  and  the  sister  of  your  love  and 
mine,  to  the  unknown  Retribution  and  the  in- 
evitable End.  Wait  and  look.  The  Pestilence 
which  touches  the  rest  will  pass  me." 

I  saw  him  again.  He  was  still  in  the  forest; 
and  the  numbers  of  his  lost  companions  had 
dwindled  to  very  few.  The  temple  was  gone, 
and  the  idols  were  gone  —  and  in  their  place 


the  figures  of  dark,  dwarfish  men  lurked  mur- 
derously among  the  trees,  with  bows  in  their 
hands  and  arrows  fitted  to  the  string.  Once 
more  I  feared  for  Walter,  and  cried  out  to  warn 
him.  Once  more  he  turned  to  me,  with  the 
immovable  quiet  in  his  face.  "  Another  step," 
he  said,  "on  the  dark  road.  Wait  and  look. 
The  arrows  that  strike  the  rest  will  spare  me." 

I  saw  him  for  the  third  time  in  a  wrecked 
ship,  stranded  on  a  wild,  sandy  shore.  The 
overloaded  boats  were  making  away  from  him 
for  the  land,  and  he  alone  was  left  to  sink  with 
the  ship.  I  cried  to  him  to  hail  the  hindmost 
boat,  and  to  make  a  last  elfort  for  his  life.  The 
quiet  face  looked  at  me  in  return,  and  the  un- 
moved voice  gave  me  back  the  changeless  re- 
ply :  "  Another  step  on  the  journey.  Wait  and 
look.  The  Sea  which  disowns  the  rest  will  spare 
r»e." 

I  saw  him  for  the  last  time.  He  was  kneel- 
ing by  a  tomb  of  white  marble,  and  the  shadow 
of  a  vailed  woman  rose  out  of  the  grave  beneath 
and  waited  by  his  side.  The  uneai-thly  quiet  of 
his  face  had  changed  to  an  unearthly  sorrow. 
But  the  terrible  certainty  of  his  words  remained 
the  same.  "Darker  and  darker,"  he  said; 
"farther  and  farther  yet.  Death  takes  the 
good,  the  beautiful,  and  the  young — and  spares 
vie.  The  Pestilence  that  wastes,  the  Arrow  that 
strikes,  the  Sea  that  drowns,  the  Grave  that 
closes  over  Love  and  Hope  are  steps  of  my  jour- 
ney, and  take  me  nearer  and  nearer  to  the 
End." 

My  heart  sank  under  a  dread  beyond  words, 
under  a  grief  beyond  tears.  The  darkness 
closed  round  the  pilgrim  at  the  marble  tomb ; 
closed  round  the  vailed  woman  from  the  grave ; 
closed  round  the  dreamer  who  looked  on  them. 
I  saw  and  heard  no  more. 

I  was  aroused  by  a  hand  laid  on  my  shoulder. 
It  Avas  Laura's. 

She  had  dropped  on  her  knees  by  the  side  of 
the  sofa.  Her  face  was  flushed  and  agitated, 
and  her  eyes  met  mine  in  a  wild,  bewildered 
manner.     I  started  up  the  instant  I  saw  her. 

"What  has  happened?"  I  asked.  "What 
has  frightened  you?" 

She  looked  i-ound  at  the  half-open  door — put 
her  lips  close  to  my  ear — and  answered  in  a 
whisper : 

"Marian! — the  figure  at  the  lake — the  foot- 
steps last  night — I've  just  seen  her !  I've  just 
spoken  to  her !" 

"Who,  for  Heaven's  sake?" 

"Anne  Catherick." 

I  was  so  startled  by  the  disturbance  in  Lau- 
ra's face  and  manner,  and  so  dismayed  by  the 
first  waking  impressions  of  my  dream,  that  I 
was  not  fit  to  bear  the  revelation  which  burst 
tipon  me  when  the  name  of  Anne  Catherick 
passed  her  li]5s.  I  could  only  stand  rooted  to 
the  floor,  looking  at  her  in  breathless  silence. 

She  was  too  much  absorbed  by  vrhat  had  hap- 
pened to  notice  the  effect  which  her  reply  had 
produced  on  me.  "  I  have  seen  Anne  Catherick! 
I  have  spoken  to  Anne  Catherick!"  she  repeat- 
ed, as  if  I  had  not  heard  her.  "Oh,  Marian,  I 
have  such  things  to  tell  you !  Come  away — we 
may  be  interrupted  here — come  at  once  into  my 
room!" 

With  those  eager  words  she  caught  me  by  the 


116 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


hand,  and  led  me  through  the  library  to  the  end  i 
room  on  the  groundtloor,  which  had  been  fitted 
up  for  her  own  especial  use.  No  tliird  pei'son, 
except  her  maid,  could  have  any  excuse  for  sur- 
prising us  here.  She  pushed  me  in  before  her, 
locked  the  door,  and  drew  the  chintz  curtains 
that  hung  over  the  inside. 

The  strange,  stunned  feeling  which  had  taken 
possession  of  me  still  remained.  But  a  grow- 
ing conviction  that  the  complications  which 
had  long  threatened  to  gather  about  her,  and  to 
gather  about  me,  had  suddenly  closed  fast  round 
us  both,  was  now  beginning  to  penetrate  my 
mind.  I  could  not  express  it  in  words — I  could 
hardly  even  realize  it  dimly  in  my  own  thoughts. 
"Anne  Catherick  !"  I  whispered  to  myself,  with 
useless, helpless  reitei-ation — "Anne Catherick!" 

Laiu'a  drew  me  to  the  nearest  seat,  an  otto- 
man in  the  middle  of  the  room.  "Look !"  she 
said;  "look  here!"  and  pointed  to  the  bosom 
of  her  dress. 

I  saw  for  the  first  time  that  the  lost  brooch 
was  pinned  in  its  place  again.  There  was  some- 
thing real  in  the  sight  of  it,  something  real  jn 
the  touching  of  it  afterward,  which  seemed  to 
steady  the  whirl  and  confusion  in  my  thoughts, 
and  to  help  me  to  compose  myself. 

"Where  did  you  find  your  brooch?"  The 
first  words  I  could  say  to  her  were  the  words 
which  put  that  trivial  question  at  that  important 
moment. 

"  Site  found  it,  Marian." 

"Where?" 

"  On  the  floor  of  the  boat-house.  Oh,  how 
shall  I  begin — how  shall  I  tell  you  about  it! 
She  talked  to  me  so  strangely — she  looked  so 
fearfully  ill — she  left  me  so  suddenly — !" 

Her  voice  rose  as  the  tumult  of  her  recollec- 
tions pressed  upon  her  mind.  The  inveterate 
distrust  which  weighs,  night  and  day,  on  my 
spirits  in  this  house,  instantly  roused  me  to  warn 
her — just  as  the  sight  of  the  brooch  had  roused 
me  to  question  her  the  moment  before. 

"  Speak  low !"  I  said.  "  The  window  is  open, 
and  the  garden  path  runs  beneath  it.  Begin  at 
the  beginning,  Laura.  Tell  me,  word  for  word, 
what  passed  between  that  woman  and  you." 

"  Shall  I  close  the  window  first  ?" 

"  No ;  only  speak  low :  only  remember  that 
Anne  Catherick  is  a  dangerous  subject  under 
vour  husband's  roof.  Where  did  you  first  see 
her  ?" 

"At  the  boat-house,  Marian.  I  went  out,  as 
you  know,  to  find  my  brooch ;  and  I  walked 
along  the  path  through  the  plantation,  looking 
down  on  the  ground  carefully  at  every  step.  In 
that  way  I  got  on,  after  a  long  time,  to  the  boat- 
house  ;  and  as  soon  as  I  was  inside  it  I  went  on 
my  knees  to  hunt  over  the  floor.  I  was  still 
searching,  with  my  back  to  the  door-way,  when 
I  heard  a  soft,  strange  voice  behind  me  say, 
'Miss  FaiHie.'" 

"Miss  Fairlie!" 

' '  Yes — my  old  name — the  dear,  famihar  name 
that  I  tliought  I  had  parted  from  forevei*.  I 
started  uj) — not  friglitened,  the  voice  was  too 
kind  and  gentle  to  frighten  any  body — but  very 
much  surprised.  There,  looking  at  me  from  the 
door-way,  stood  a  woman  wliosc  face  I  never  re- 
membered to  have  seen  before." 

"How  was  she  dressed?" 

"  She  had  a  neat,  pretty  white  gown  on,  and 


over  it  a  poor,  worn,  thin  dark  shawl.  Her  bon- 
net was  of  brown  straw,  as  poor  and  worn  as  the 
shawl.  I  was  struck  by  the  difterence  between 
her  gown  and  the  rest  of  her  dress,  and  she  saw 
that  I  noticed  it.  '  Don't  look  at  my  bonnet  and 
shawl,'  she  said,  speaking  in  a  quick,  breathless, 
sudden  way;  'if  I  mustn't  wear  white,  I  don't 
care  what  I  w'ear.  Look  at  iny  gown  as  much 
as  you  please  ;  I'm  not  ashamed  of  that.'  Very 
strange,  was  it  not?  Before  I  could  say  any 
thing  to  soothe  her,  she  held  out  one  of  her 
hands,  and  I  saw  my  brooch  in  it.  I  was  so 
pleased  and  so  grateful  that  I  went  quite  close 
to  her  to  say  what  I  really  felt.  '  Are  you  thank- 
ful enough  to  do  me  one  little  kindness?'  she 
asked.  'Yes,  indeed,' I  answered;  'any  kind- 
ness in  my  power  I  shall  be  glad  to  show  yovi.' 
'  Then  let  me  pin  your  brooch  on  for  you,  now 
I  have  found  it.'  Her  request  was  so  unexpected, 
Marian,  arid  she  made  it  with  such  extraordi- 
nary eagerness,  that  I  drew  back  a  step  or  two, 
not  well  knowing  what  to  do.  'Ah!'  she  said, 
'your  mother  would  have  let  me  pin  on  the 
brooch.'  There  was  something  in  her  voice 
and  her  look,  as  well  as  in  her  mentioning  my 
luothcr  in  that  reproachful  manner,  which  made 
me  ashamed  of  my  distrust.  I  took  her  hand 
with  the  brooch  in  it,  and  put  it  up  gently  on 
the  bosom  of  my  dress.  '  You  knew  my  mother  ?' 
I  said.  'Was  it  very  long  ago?  have  I  ever 
seen  you  before  ?'  Her  hands  were  busy  fasten- 
ing the  brooch :  she  stopped  and  pressed  them 
against  my  bi'east.  '  You  don't  remember  a  fine 
spring  day  at  Limnieridge,'  she  said,  'and  your 
mother  walking  down  the  path  that  led  to  the 
school,  with  a  little  girl  on  each  side  of  her  ?  I 
have  had  nothing  else  to  think  of  since ;  and  1 
remember  it.  You  were  one  of  the  little  girls, 
and  I  was  the  other.  Pretty,  clever  Miss  Fair- 
lie,  and  poor  dazed  Anne  Catherick  were  nearer 
to  each  other  then  than  they  are  now !'  " 

"Did  you  remember  her,  Laura,  when  she 
told  you  her  name?" 

"Yes — I  remembered  your  asking  me  about 
Anne  Catherick  at  Limmeridge,  and  your  say- 
ing that  she  had  once  been  considered  like  me." 
"What  reminded  you  of  that,  Laura?" 
"  >S'/i^'  reminded  me.  While  I  was  looking  at 
her,  while  she  was  very  close  to  me,  it  came  over 
my  mind  suddenly  that  we  were  like  each  oth- 
er! Her  face  was  pale,  and  thin,  and  weary — 
but  the  sight  of  it  startled  me,  as  if  it  had  been 
the  sight  of  my  own  face  in  the  glass  after  a  long 
illness.  The  discovery  —  I  don't  know  why — 
gave  me  such  a  shock  that  I  was  perfectly  inca- 
pable of  speaking  to  her  for  the  moment." 
"Did  she  seem  hurt  by  your  silence  ?" 
"  I  am  afraid  she  was  hurt  by  it.  '  You  have 
not  got  your  mother's  face,'  she  said,  'or  your 
mother's  heart.  Your  mother's  face  was  dark ; 
and  your  mother's  heart.  Miss  Fairlie,  was  the 
heart  of  an  angel.'  '  I  am  sure  I  feel  kindly  to- 
ward you,' I  said,  'though  I  may  not  be  able 
to  express  it  as  I  ought.  Why  do  you  call  me 
Miss  Fairlie?'  'Because  I  love  the  name  of 
Fairlie,  and  hate  the  name  of  Glydc,'  she  broke 
out,  violently.  I  had  seen  nothing  like  madness 
in  her  before  this  ;  but  I  fancied  I  saw  it  now  in 
her  eyes.  '  I  only  thought  you  might  not  know 
I  was  married,'  I  said,  remembering  the  wild 
letter  she  wrote  to  me  at  Limmeridge,  and  try- 
ing to  quiet  her.    She  sighed  bitterly,  and  turned 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


117 


away  from  me.  'Not  know  you  were  married !' 
she  repeated.  '  I  am  here  because  you  are  mar- 
ried. I  am  here  to  make  atonement  to  you,  be- 
fore I  meet  your  mother  in  the  world  beyond 
the  grave.'  She  drew  farther  and  farther  away 
from  me,  till  she  was  out  of  the  boat-house — 
and  then  she  watched  and  listened  for  a  little 
while.  When  she  turned  round  to  speak  again, 
instead  of  coming  back,  she  stopped  wliere  she 
was,  looking  in  at  me,  with  a  hand  on  each  side 
of  the  entrance.  '  Did  you  see  me  at  the  lake 
last  night  ?'  she  said.  '  Did  you  hear  me  follow- 
ing you  in  the  wood  ?  I  have  been  waiting  for 
.idays  together  to  speak  to  you  alone — I  have  left 
the  only  friend  I  have  in  the  world  anxious  and 
frightened  about  me — I  have  risked  being  shut 
up  again  in  the  mad-house — and  all  for  your 
sake.  Miss  Fairlie,  all  for  your  sake.'  Her  words 
alarmed  me,  Marian  ;  and  yet  there  was  some- 
thing in  the  way  she  spoke  that  made  me  pity 
her  witii  all  my  heart.  I  am  sure  my  pity  must 
have  ijcen  siucere,  for  it  made  me  bold  enough 
to  ask  tlie  poor  creature  to  come  in  and  sit  down 
in  the  boat-house  by  my  side." 

"Did  she  do  so?"" 

"  No.  She  shook  her  head,  and  told  me  she 
must  stop  where  she  was,  to  watch  and  listen, 
and  see  that  no  third  person  surprised  us.  And 
from  first  to  last,  there  she  waited  at  the  en- 
trance, with  a  hand  on  each  side  of  it ;  some- 
times bending  in  suddenly  to  speak  to  me ; 
sometimes  drawing  back  suddenly  to  look  about 
her.  '  I  was  here  yesterday,'  she  said,  '  before 
it  came  dark;  and  I  heard  you,  and  the  lady 
with  you,  talking  togetiier.  I  heard  you  tell 
her  about  your  husband.  I  heard  you  say  you 
had  no  influence  to  make  him  believe  you,  and 
no  influence  to  keep  him  silent.  Ah !  I  knew 
what  those  words  meant ;  my  conscience  told 
me  while  I  was  listening.  Why  did  I  ever  let 
you  marry  him !  Oil,  my  fear — my  mad,  misera- 
ble, wicked  fear! — '  She  covered  up  her  face 
in  her  poor  worn  shawl,  and  moaned  and  mur- 
mui'ed  to  herself  behind  it.  I  began  to  be 
afraid  she  might  break  out  into  some  terrible 
despair  which  neither  she  nor  I  could  master. 

*  Try  to  quiet  yourself,'  I  said ;  '  try  to  tell  me 
how  you  might  have  prevented  my  marriage.' 
She  took  the  shawl  from  her  face,  and  looked  at 
me  vacantly.  '  I  ought  to  have  had  heart  enough 
to  stop  at  Lirameridge,'  she  answered.  '  I  ought 
never  to  have  let  the  news  of  his  coming  there 
frighten  me  away.  I  ought  to  have  warned  you 
and  saved  you  before  it  was  too  late.  Why  did 
I  only  have  courage  enough  to  write  you  that 
letter?  Why  did  I  only  do  harm,  when  I 
wanted  and  meant  to  do  good  ?  Oh,  my  fear — 
my  mad,  miserable,  wicked  fear  !'  She  repeat- 
ed those  words  again,  and  hid  her  face  again  in 
the  end  of  her  poor  worn  shawl.  It  was  dread- 
ful to  see  her,  and  dreadful  to  hear  her." 

"  Surely,  Laura,  you  asked  wluxt  the  fear  was 
which  she  dwelt  on  so  earnestly  ?" 

"Yes;  I  asked  that," 

"And  what  did  she  say?" 

"  She  asked  me,  in  return,  if /should  not  be 
afraid  of  a  man  who  had  shut  me  up  in  a  mad- 
house, and  who  would  shut  me  up  again  if  he 
could?  I  said,  '  Are  you  afraid  still  ?  Surely 
you  would  not  be  here  if  you  were  afraid  now  ?' 

*  No,"  she  said,  '  I  am  not  afraid  now.'  I  asked 
why  not.     She  suddenly  bent  forward  into  the 


boat-house,  and  said,  'Can't  you  guess  why?' 
I  shook  my  head.  '  Look  at  me,'  she  went  on, 
I  told  her  I  was  grieved  to  see  that  she  looked 
very  sorrowful  and  very  ill.  She  smiled  for  the 
first  time.  '  111  ?'  she  repeated  ;  '  I"m  dying. 
You  know  why  I'm  not  afraid  of  liim  now.  Do 
you  think  I  shall  meet  your  mother  in  heaven? 
Will  she  forgive  me  if  I  do  ?'  I  was  so  shocked 
and  so  startled  that  I  could  make  no  reply.  '  I 
have  been  thinking  of  it,'  she  went  on,  '  all  the 
time  I  have  been  in  hiding  from  your  husband, 
all  the  time  I  lay  ill.  My  thoughts  have  driven 
me  here — I  want  to  make  atonement — I  want 
to  undo  all  I  can  of  the  harm  I  once  did.'  I 
begged  her  as  earnestly  as  I  could  to  tell  me 
what  she  meant.  She  still  looked  at  me  with 
fixed,  vacant  eyes.  ^  Shall  I  undo  the  harm?' 
she  said  to  herself,  doubtfully.  '  You  have 
friends  to  take  your  part.  If  you  know  his 
wicked  secret,  he  will  be  afraid  of  you ;  he 
won't  dare  use  you  as  he  used  me.  He  must 
treat  you  mercifully  for  his  own  sake,  if  he  is 
afraid  of  you  and  your  friends.  And  if  he 
treats  you  mercifully,  and  if  I  can  say  it  was  my 
doing — '  I  listened  eagerly  for  more ;  but  she 
stopped  at  those  words." 

''You  tried  to  make  her  go  on?" 
"I  tried;  but  she  only  drew  herself  away 
from  me  again,  and  leaned  her  face  and  arms 
against  the  side  of  the  boat-house.      'Oh!'  I 
heard  her  say,  with  a  dreadful,  distracted  ten- 
derness in  her  voice,  '  oh !  if  I  could  only  be 
buried  with  your  mother !    If  I  could  only  wake 
at  her  side  when  the  angel's  trumpet  sounds, 
and  the  graves  give  up  their  dead  at  the  resur- 
rection !' — Marian !    I  trembled  from  head  to 
foot — it  was  horrible  to  hear  her.     '  But  there 
is  no  hope  of  that,'  she  said,  moving  a  little,  so 
as  to  look  at  me  again  ;  '  no  hope  for  a  poor 
stranger  like  me.     /  shall  not  rest  under  th© 
marble  cross  that  I  washed  with  my  own  hands, 
and  made  so  white  and  pure  for  her  sake.     Oh 
no !  oh  no !  God's  mercy,  not  man's,  will  take 
me  to  her,  where  the  wicked  cease  from  trou- 
bling and  the  weary  are  at  rest.'     She  spoke 
those   words   quietly   and  sorrowfully,  Avith  a 
heavy,  hopeless  sigh ;  and  then  waited  a  little. 
Her  face  was  confused  and  troubled  ;  she  seem- 
ed to  be  thinking,  or  trying  to  think.     'What 
was  it  I  said  just  now  ?'  she  asked,  after  a  while. 
'  When  your  mother  is  in  my  mind,  every  thing 
else  goes  out  of  it.     What  was  I  saying?  what 
was  I  saying  ?'     I  reminded  the  poor  creature, 
as  kindly  and  delicately  as  I  could.     '  Ah,  yes, 
yes,'  she  said,  still  in  a  vacant,  perplexed  man- 
ner.    '  You  are  helpless  with  your  wicked  hus- 
band.    Yes.    And  I  must  do  what  I  have  come 
to  do  here — I  must  make  it  up  to  you  for  hav- 
ing been  afraid  to  speak  out  at  a  better  time.' 
'  What  is  it  you  have  to  tell  me  ?'  I  asked.    '  A 
Secret,'  she  answered.     '  The  Secret  that  your 
cruel  husband  is  afraid  of.'    Her  face  darkened ; 
and    a   hard,    angry  stare   fixed  itself  in  her 
eyes.     She  began  waving  her  hand  at  me  in  a 
strange,  unmeaning  manner.  '  My  mother  knows 
the  Secret,'  she  said,  speaking  slowly  for  the 
first  time  ;  weighing  every  word  as  she  uttered  it. 
'  My  mother  has  wasted  and  worn  away  under 
the  Secret  half  her  lifetime.     One  day,  when  I 
was  grown  up,  she  told  it  to  me.     And  your 
husband  knew  she  told  it.     Knew  to  my  cost. 
Ah,  poor  me  !  knew,  knew,  knew  she  told  it.' " 


H8 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


'NOT   NOW,      SHK    SAID;    "  WE   ARE    NOT   ALONE WE   ARE    AVATOHED. 


"  Yes !  yes  !     What  did  she  say  next  ?" 

"  She  stopped  again,  Marian,  at  that  point — " 

"And  said  no  more?" 

"And  listened  eagerly.  'Hush!'  she  whis- 
pered,-still  waving  her  hand  at  me.  'Hush!' 
She  moved  aside  out  of  the  door-way,  moved 
slowly  and  stealthily,  step  by  stop,  till  I  lost  her 
past  the  edge  of  tlie  boat-house." 

"  Surely  you  followed  her?" 

"  Yes ;  my  anxiety  made  me  bold  enough  to 
rise  and  follow  her.  Just  as  I  reached  the  en- 
trance she  appeared  again,  suddenly,  round  the 
side  of  the  boat-house.  'The  Secret,'  I  whis- 
pered to  her — 'wait  and  tell  me  tlie  Secret!' 
She  cauglit  hold  of  my  arm  and  looked  at  me, 
with  wild,  friglitened  eyes.  'Not  now,'  she  said ; 
'we  are  not  alone  —  we  are  watched.  Come 
here  to-morrow  at  this  time — by  yourself — mind 
— by  yourself.'  She  pushed  me  roughly  into  the 
boat-house  again,  and  I  saw  lier  no  more." 

"  Oh,  Laura,  Laura,  another  chance  lost !  If 
I  had  only  been  near  you  she  should  not  have 
escaped  us.  On  which  side  did  you  lose  sight 
of  her?" 

"On  the  left  side,  where  the  ground  sinks 
and  the  wood  is  thickest." 

"  Did  you  run  out  again  ?  did  you  call  after 
her?" 


"How^  could  I?  I  was  too  terrified  to  move 
or  speak." 

"But  when  you  did  move — when  you  came 
out—?" 

"  I  ran  back  here  to  tell  you  what  had  hap- 
pened." 

"  Did  you  see  any  one  or  hear  any  one  in  the 
plantation  ?" 

"  No ;  it  seemed  to  be  all  still  and  quiet  when 
I  passed  through  it." 

I  waited  for  a  moment  to  consider.  Was 
this  third  person,  supposed  to  have  been  secret- 
ly present  at  the  interview,  a  reality  or  the 
creature  of  Anne  Catherick's  excited  fancy? 
It  was  impossible  to  determine.  The  one  thing 
certain  was,  that  we  had  failed  again  on  the 
very  brink  of  discovery — failed  utterly  and  irre- 
trievably, unless  Anne  Catherick  kept  her  ap- 
pointment at  the  boat-house  for  the  next  day. 

"Are  you  quite  sure  you  have  told  me  every 
thing  that  passed — every  word  that  was  said?" 
I  inquired. 

"I  think  so,"  she  answered.  "My  powers 
of  memory,  Marian,  are  not  like  yours.  But  I 
was  so  strongly  imjiressed,  so  deeply  interested, 
that  nothing  of  any  importance  can  possibly 
have  escaped  me." 

"My  dear  Laura,  the  merest  trifles  are  of 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


119 


importance  where  Anne  Catherick  is  concerned. 
Think  a2;ain.  Did  no  chance  reference  escape 
her  as  to  the  place  in  which  she  is  living  at  the 
present  time?'' 

"None  that  I  can  remember." 

"  Did  she  not  mention  a  companion  and  friend 
— a  woman  named  Mrs.  Clements  ?" 

"  Oh  yes !  yes  !  I  forgot  that.  She  told  me 
Mrs.  Clements  wanted  sadly  to  go  with  her  to 
the  lake  and  take  care  of  her,  and  begged  and 
prayed  that  she  would  not  venture  into  this 
neighborhood  alone." 

"Was  that  all  she  said  about  Mrs.  Clem- 
ents?" 

"  Yes,  that  was  all." 

"  She  told  you  nothing  about  the  place  in 
which  she  took  refuge  after  leaving  Todd's  Cor- 
ner?" 

"Nothing — I  am  quite  sure." 

"Nor  where  she  has  lived  since?  Nor  what 
her  illness  had  been?" 

"No,  Marian,  not  a  word.  Tell  me,  pray 
tell  me,  what  you  think  about  it.  I  don't  know 
what  to  think,  or  what  to  do  next." 

"  You  must  do  this,  my  love  ;  you  must  care- 
fully keep  the  appointment  at  the  boat-house 
to-morrow.  It  is  impossible  to  say  what  inter- 
ests may  not  depend  on  your  seeing  that  woman 
again.  You  shall  not  be  left  to  yourself  a  sec- 
ond time.  I  will  follow  you  at  a  safe  distance. 
Nobody  shall  see  me ;  but  I  will  keep  within 
hearing  of  your  voice  if  any  thing  happens. 
Anne  Catherick  has  escaped  Walter  Hartright, 
and  has  escaped  you.  Whatever  happens  she 
shall  not  escape  me." 

Laura's  eyes  read  mine  attentively  Avhile  I 
was  speaking. 

"You  believe,"  she  said,  "in  this  secret  that 
my  husband  is  afraid  of?" 

"  I  do  believe  in  it." 

"Anne  Catherick's  manner,  Marian,  was 
wild,  her  eyes  were  wandering  and  vacant, 
when  she  said  those  words.  Would  you  trust 
her  in  other  things?" 

"  I  trust  nothing,  Laura,  but  my  own  observa- 
tion of  your  husband's  conduct.  I  judge  Anne 
Catherick's  words  by  his  actions ;  and  I  believe 
there  is  a  seci'et." 

I  said  no  more,  and  got  up  to  leave  the  room. 
Thoughts  were  troubling  me  which  I  might  have 
told  her  if  we  had  spoken  together  longer,  and 
which  it  might  have  been  dangerous  for  her  to 
know.  The  influence  of  the  terrible  dream  from 
which  she  had  awakened  me  hung  darklv  and 
heavily  over  every  fresh  impression  which  the 
progress  of  her  narrative  produced  on  my  mind. 
I  felt  the  ominous  Future  coming  close ;  chill- 
ing me  with  an  unutterable  awe ;  forcing  on  me 
the  conviction  of  an  unseen  Design  in  the  long 
series  of  complications  which  had  now  fastened 
round  us.  I  thought  of  Hartright — as  I  saw 
him,  in  the  body,  when  he  said  farewell ;  as  I 
saw  him,  in  the  spirit,  in  my  dream — and  I, 
too,  began  to  doubt  now  whether  we  were  not 
advancing,  blindfold,  to  an  appointed  and  an 
inevitable  End. 

Leaving  Laura  to  go  up  stairs  alone,  I  went 
out  to  look  about  me  in  the  walks  near  the 
house.  The  circumstances  under  which  Anne 
Catherick  had  parted  from  her  had  made  me 
secretly  anxious  to  know  how  Count  Fosco  was 


passing  the  afternoon;  and  had  rendered  me 
secretly  distrustful  of  the  results  of  that  solitary 
journey  from  which  Sir  Percival  had  returned 
but  a  few  hours  since. 

After  looking  for  them  in  every  direction,  and 
discovering  nothing,  I  returned  to  the  house, 
and  entered  the  different  rooms  on  the  ground- 
floor,  one  after  anotlier.  They  were  all  empty, 
I  came  out  again  into  the  hall,  and  went  up 
stairs  to  return  to  Laura.  Madame  Fosco 
o])ened  her  door,  as  I  passed  it  in  my  way 
along  tlie  passage ;  and  I  stopped  to  see  if  she 
could  inform  me  of  the  whereabouts  of  her  hus- 
band and  Sir  Percival.  Yes ;  she  had  seen 
them  both  from  her  window  more  tlian  an  hour 
since.  Tlic  Count  had  looked  up  with  his  cus- 
tomary kindness,  and  had  mentioned,  with  his 
habitual  attention  to  her  in  the  smallest  trifles, 
that  he  and  his  friend  were  going  out  together 
for  a  long  walk. 

For  a  long  walk !  They  had  never  yet  been 
in  each  other's  company  with  that  object  in  my 
experience  of  them.  Sir  Percival  cared  for  no 
exercise  but  riding ;  and  the  Count  (except  when 
he  was  polite  enough  to  be  my  escort)  cured  for 
no  exercise  at  all. 

When  I  joined  Laura  again  I  found  that  she 
had  called  to  mind,  in  my  absence,  the  impend- 
ing question  of  the  signature  to  the  deed, 
wliich,  in  the  interest  of  discussing  her  inter- 
view with  Anne  Catherick,  we  had  hitherto 
overlooked.  Her  first  words  when  I  saw  her 
expressed  her  surprise  at  the  absence  of  the  ex- 
pected summons  to  attend  Sir  Percival  in  the 
library. 

"  You  may  make  your  mind  easy  on  that  sub- 
ject," I  said.  "  For  the  present,  at  least,  nei- 
ther )'our  resolution  nor  mine  will  be  exposed 
to  any  further  trial.  Sir  Percival  has  altered 
his  plans :  the  business  of  the  signature  is  put 
off." 

"  Put  off  ?"  Laura  repeated,  amazedly. 
"Who  told  you  so?" 

"  My  authority  is  Count  Fosco.  I  believe  it 
is  to  his  interference  that  we  are  indebted  for 
your  husband's  sudden  change  of  purpose." 

"  It  seems  impossible,  Marian.  If  the  object 
of  my  signing  was,  as  we  sujipose,  to  obtain 
money  for  Sir  Percival  that  he  urgently  want- 
ed, how  can  the  matter  be  put  oft'?" 

"  I  think,  Laura,  we  have  the  means  at  hand 
of  setting  that  doubt  at  rest.  Have  you  forgot- 
ten the  conversation  that  I  heard  between  Sir 
Percival  and  the  lawver,  as  they  were  crossing 
the  hall  ?" 

"  No  ;  but  I  don't  remember — " 

"I  do.  There  were  two  alternatives  prcv- 
posed.  One  was  to  obtain  your  signature  to 
the  parchment.  The  other  was  to  gain  time  by 
giving  bills  at  three  months.  The  last  resource 
is  evidently  tlie  resource  now  adopted ;  and  we 
may  fairly  hope  to  be  relieved  from  our  share  in 
Sir  Percival's  embarrassments  for  some  time  to 
come." 

"  Oh,  Marian,  it  sounds  too  good  to  be  true !" 

"Does  it,  my  love?  You  complimented  me 
on  my  ready  memory  not  long  since ;  but  you 
seem  to  doubt  it  now.  I  will  get  my  journal,  and 
you  shall  see  if  I  am  right  or  wrong." 

I  went  away  and  got  the  book  at  once.  On 
looking  back  to  the  entry  referring  to  the  law- 
yer's visit,  we  found  that  my  recollection  of  the 


120 


THE  W0M2\N  IN  WHITE. 


two  alternatives  presented  was  accurately  cor- 
rect. It  was  almost  as  great  a  relief  to  my 
mind  as  to  Laura's  to  find  that  my  memory 
had  served  me,  on  this  occasion,  as  faithfully  as 
usual.  In  the  perilous  uncertainty  of  our  pres- 
ent situation  it  is  hard  to  say  what  future  in- 
terests may  not  depend  upon  the  regularity  of 
the  entries  in  my  journal,  and  upon  the  reliabil- 
ity of  my  recollection  at  the  time  when  I  make 
them. 

Laura's  face  and  manner  suggested  to  me 
that  this  last  consideration  had  occurred  to  her 
as  well  as  to  myself.  Any  way,  it  is  only  a  tri- 
fling matter ;  and  I  am  almost  ashamed  to  put 
it  down  here  in  writing — it  seems  to  set  the  for- 
lornness  of  our  situation  in  such  a  miserably 
vivid  light.  We  must  have  little,  indeed,  to  de- 
pend on,  when  the  discovery  that  my  memory 
can  still  be  trusted  to  serve  us  is  hailed  as  if  it 
was  the  discovery  of  a  new  friend ! 

The  first  bell  for  dinner  separated  us.  Just 
as  it  had  done  ringing  Sir  Percival  and  the 
Count  returned  from  their  walk.  We  heard 
the  master  of  the  house  storming  at  the  servant 
for  being  five  minutes  late;  and  the  master's 
guest  interposing,  as  usual,  in  the  interests  of 
propriety,  patience,  and  peace. 

****** 

The  evening  has  come  and  gone.  No  extraor- 
dinary event  has  hapj^ened.  But  I  have  noticed 
certain  peculiarities  in  the  conduct  of  Sir  Perci- 
val and  the  Count  which  have  sent  me  to  bed 
feeling  very  anxious  and  uneasy  about  Anne 
Catherick,  and  about  the  results  which  to-mor- 
row may  produce. 

I  know  enough  by  this  time  to  be  sure  that 
the  aspect  of  Sir  Percival  which  is  the  most 
false,  and  which,  thei'cfore,  means  the  worst, 
is  his  polite  as]ject.  That  long  walk  with  his 
friend  had  ended  in  improving  his  manners, 
especially  toward  his  wife.  To  Laura's  secret 
surprise,  and  to  my  secret  alarm,  he  called  her 
by  her  Christian  name,  asked  if  she  had  heard 
lately  from  her  uncle,  inquired  when  Mrs.  Vesey 
was  to  receive  her  invitation  to  Blackwater,  and 
showed  her  so  many  other  little  attentions  that 
he  almost  recalled  the  days  of  his  hateful  court- 
ship at  Limmeridge  House.  This  was  a  bad 
sign,  to  begin  with ;  and  I  thought  it  more  om- 
inous still  that  he  should  pretend,  after  dinner, 
to  fall  asleep  in  the  drawing-room,  and  that  his 
eyes  should  cunningly  follow  Laura  and  me 
when  he  thouglit  we  neither  of  us  suspected 
him.  I  have  never  had  any  doubt  that  his  sud- 
den journey  by  himself  took  him  to  Welming- 
ham  to  question  Mrs.  Catlierick ;  but  the  exjie- 
rience  of  to-night  has  made  me  fear  tliat  the 
expedition  was  not  undertaken  in  vain,  and  that 
he  has  got  the  information  which  he  unques- 
tionably left  us  to  collect.  If  I  knew  where 
Anne  Catherick  was  to  be  found,  I  would  be  up 
to-morrow  with  sunrise  and  warn  her. 

While  tlie  aspect  under  wliicli  Sir  Percival 
presented  himself  to-night  was  unhappily  but 
too  familiar  to  me,  the  aspect  under  which  tlie 
Count  ap]ieared  was,  on  tlie  other  hand,  entire- 
ly new  in  my  experience  of  him.  He  ])ermitted 
me  this  evening  to  make  his  acquaintance,  for 
the  first  time,  in  the  character  of  a  Man  of  Sen- 
timent— of  sentiment,  as  I  believe,  really  felt, 
not  assumed  for  the  occasion. 

For  instance,  he  was  quiet  and  subdued ;  his 


eyes  and  his  voice  expressed  a  restrained  sensi- 
bility. He  wore  (as  if  there  was  some  hidden 
connection  between  his  showiest  finery  and  his 
deepest  feeling)  the  most  magnificent  waistcoat 
he  had  yet  appeared  in— it  was  made  of  pale 
sea-green  silk,  and  delicately  trimmed  with  fine 
silver  braid.  His  voice  sank  into  the  tenderest 
inflections,  his  smile  expressed  a  thoughtful, 
fatherly  admiration,  whenever  he  spoke  to  Laura 
or  to  me.  He  pressed  his  wife's  hand  under  the 
table  when  she  thanked  him  for  trifling  little 
attentions  at  dinner.  He  took  wine  with  her. 
"Your  health  and  happiness,  my  angel!"  he 
said,  with  fond,  glistening  eyes.  He  ate  little 
or  nothing;  and  sighed,  and  said,  "Good  Per- 
cival !"  when  his  friend  laughed  at  him.  After 
dinner  he  took  Laura  by  the  hand,  and  asked 
her  if  she  would  be  "  so  sweet  as  to  play  to  him." 
She  complied,  through  sheer  astonishment.  He 
sat  by  the  piano,  with  his  watch-chain  resting 
in  folds,  like  a  golden  serpent,  on  the  sea-green 
protuberance  of  his  waistcoat.  His  immense 
head  lay  languidly  on  one  side ;  and  he  gently 
beat  time  with  two  of  his  yellow-white  fingers. 
He  highly  approved  of  the  music,  and  tenderly 
admired  Laura's  manner  of  playing — not  as  poor 
Hartright  used  to  praise  it,  with  an  innocent 
enjoyment  of  the  sweet  sounds,  but  with  a  clear, 
cultivated,  practical  knowledge  of  the  merits  of 
the  composition,  in  the  first  place,  and  of  the 
merits  of  the  player's  touch,  in  the  second.  As 
the  evening  closed  in  he  begged  that  the  lovely 
dying  light  might  not  be  profaned,  just  yet,  by 
the  appearance  of  the  lamps.  He  came,  with 
his  horribly  silent  tread,  to  the  distant  window 
at  which  I  was  standing,  to  be  out  of  his  way 
and  to  avoid  the  very  sight  of  him — he  came  to 
ask  me  to  sup])ort  his  protest  against  the  lamps. 
If  any  one  of  them  could  only  have  burned  him 
up  at  that  moment  I  would  have  gone  down  to 
the  kitchen  and  fetched  it  myself. 

"  Surely  you  like  this  modest,  trombling  En- 
glish twilight?"  he  said,  softly.  "Ah!  I  love 
it.  I  feel  my  inborn  admiration  of  all  that  is 
noble  and  great  and  good  purified  by  the  breath 
of  Heaven,  on  an  evening  like  this.  Nature 
has  such  imperishable  charms,  such  inextin- 
guishable tendernesses  for  me ! — I  am  an  old, 
fat  man  :  talk  which  would  become  your  lips, 
Miss  Halcombe,  sounds  like  a  derision  and  a 
mockciy  on  mine.  It  is  hard  to  be  laughed  at 
in  my  moments  of  sentiment,  as  if  my  soul  was 
like  myself,  old  and  overgrown.  Observe,  dear 
lady,  what  a  light  is  dying  on  the  trees !  Does 
it  penetrate  your  heart  as  it  penetrates  mine?" 

He  paused — looked  at  me — and  repeated  the 
famous  lines  of  Dante  on  the  Evening-time  with 
a  melody  and  tenderness  which  added  a  charm 
of  their  own  to  the  matchless  beauty  of  the  po- 
etry itself. 

"Bah!"  he  cried  suddenly,  as  the  last  ca- 
dence of  those  noble  Italian  words  died  away  on 
his  lips ;  "  I  make  an  old  fool  of  myself,  and 
only  weary  you  all !  Let  us  shut  uji  the  window 
in  our  bosoms  and  get  back  to  the  matter-of-fact 
world.  Percival !  I  sanction  the  admission  of 
the  lamps.  Lady  Glyde — Miss  Halcombe — El- 
eanor, my  good  wife — which  of  you  will  indulge 
me  with  a  game  at  dominoes  ?" 

He  addressed  us  all ;  but  he  looked  csjiecially 
at  Laura.  She  iiad  learned  to  feel  my  dread  of 
oftending  him,  and  she  accepted  his  proposal. 


THE  WOIVIAN  IN  WHITE. 


121 


It  was  more  than  I  could  have  done  at  that  mo- 
ment. I  could  not  have  sat  down  at  the  same 
table  with  him  for  any  consideration.  His  ej'es 
seemed  to  reach  my  inmost  soul  through  the 
thickening  obscurity  of  the  twilight.  His  voice 
ti-embled  along  every  nerve  in  my  body,  and 
turned  me  hot  and  cold  alternately.  The  mys- 
tery and  terror  of  my  dream,  which  had  haunt- 
ed me  at  intervals  all  through  the  evening,  now 
oppressed  my  mind  with  an  unendurable  fore- 
boding and  an  unutterable  awe.  I  saw  the  white 
tomb  again,  and  the  vailed  woman  rising  out  of 
it  by  Hartright's  side.  The  thought  of  Laura 
welled  up  like  a  spring  in  the  depths  of  my  heart, 
and  filled  it  with  waters  of  bitterness,  never, 
never  known  to  it  before.  I  caught  her  by  the 
hand  as  she  passed  me  on  her  way  to  the  table, 
and  kissed  her  as  if  that  night  was  to  part  us 
forever.  While  they  were  all  gazing  at  me  in 
astonishment,  I  ran  out  through  the  low  window 
which  was  open  before  me  to  the  ground — ran 
out  to  hide  from  them  in  the  darkness ;  to  hide 
even  from  myself. 

We  separated  that  evening  later  than  usual. 
Toward  midnight  the  sinnmer  silence  was  broken 
by  the  shuddering  of  a  low,  melancholy  wind 
among  the  trees.  We  all  felt  the  sudden  chill 
in  the  atmosphere ;  but  the  Count  was  the  first 
to  notice  the  stealthy  rising  of  the  wind.  He 
st0])ped  while  he  was  lighting  my  candle  for  me, 
and  held  up  his  hand  waruingly : 


"Listen!"  he  said, 
to-morrow." 


"  There  will  be  a  change 


July  !Jth. — The  events  of  yesterday  warned 
me  to  be  ready,  sooner  or  latei-,  to  meet  the 
worst.  To-day  is  not  yet  at  an  end ;  and  the 
worst  has  come. 

Judging  by  the  closest  calculation  of  time 
that  Laura  and  I  could  make,  we  arrived  at 
the  conclusion  that  Anne  Catherick  must  have 
appeared  at  the  boat-house  at  half  past  two 
o'clock  on  the  afternoon  of  yesterday.  I  ac- 
cordingly arranged  that  Laura  should  just  show 
herself  at  the  luncheon-table  to-day,  and  should 
then  slip  out  at  the  first  opportunity ;  leaving 
me  behind  to  preserve  appearances,  and  to  fol- 
low her  as  soon  as  I  could  safely  do  so.  This 
mode  of  proceeding,  if  no  obstacles  occuiTcd  to 
thwart  us,  would  enable  her  to  be  at  the  boat- 
house  before  half  past  two,  and  (when  I  left 
the  table  in  my  turn)  would  take  me  to  a  safe 
position  in  the  plantation  before  three. 

The  change  in  the  weather,  which  last  night's 
wind  warned  us  to  expect,  came  with  tlie  morn- 
ing. It  was  raining  heavily  when  I  got  up,  and 
it  continued  to  rain  until  twelve  o'clock — when 
the  clouds  dispersed,  the  blue  sky  appeared,  and 
the  sun  shone  again  with  the  bright  promise  of 
a  fine  afternoon. 

My  anxiety  to  know  how  Sir  Percival  and  the 
Count  would  occupy  the  early  part  of  the  day 
was  by  no  means  set  at  rest,  so  far  as  Sir  Perci- 
val was  concerned,  by  his  leaving  us  immediate- 
ly after  breakfast  land  going  out  by  himself  in 
spite  of  the  rain.  He  neither  told  us  where  he 
was  going  nor  when  we  might  expect  him  back. 
We  saw  him  pass  the  breakfast-room  window 
hastily,  with  his  high  boots  and  his  water-proof 
coat  on  ;  and  that  was  all. 

The  Count  passed  the  morning  quietly  in- 
doors ;  some  part  of  it  in  the  library ;  some  part 
in  the  drawing-room,  playing  odds  and  ends  of 
music  on  the  piano,  and  humming  to  himself. 
Judging  by  appearances,  the  sentimental  side 
of  his  character  was  persistently  inclined  to  be- 
tray itself  still.  He  was  silent  and  sensitive,  and 
ready  to  sigh  and  languish  ponderously  (as  only 
fat  men  can  sigh  and  languish)  on  the  smallest 
provocation. 

Luncheon-time  came,  and  Sir  Percival  did  not 
return.  The  Count  took  his  friend's  place  at 
the  table — plaintively  devoured  the  greater  part 
of  a  fruit  tart  submerged  under  a  whole  jugful 
of  cream — and  explained  the  full  merit  of  the 
achievement  to  us  as  soon  as  he  had  done.  "A 
taste  for  sweets,"  he  said,  in  his  softest  tones 
and  his  tenderest  manner,  "is  the  innocent  taste 
of  women  and  children.  I  love  to  share  it  with 
them — it  is  another  bond,  dear  ladies,  between 
you  and  me." 

Laura  left  the  table  in  ten  minutes'  time,  I 
was  sorely  tempted  to  accompany  her.  But  if 
we  had  both  gone  out  together  we  must  have 
excited  suspicion ;  and  worse  still,  if  we  allowed 
Anne  Catherick  to  see  Laura  accompanied  by 
a  second  person  who  was  a  stranger  to  her,  we 
sliould  in  all  probability  forfeit  her  confidence 
from  that  moment,  never  to  regain  it  again. 

I  waited,  therefore,  as  patiently  as  I  could, 
until  the  servant  came  in  to  clear  the  table. 
When  I  quitted  the  room  there  were  no  signs, 
in  the  house  or  out  of  it,  of  Sir  Percival's  return. 


122 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


"  I   SAW  ON   ONE   THORNY  BKANCH    SOME   PKAGMENTS   OF   FRINGE   FROM   A   WOMAN'S   SHAWL." 


I  left  the  Connt  with  a  piece  of  sugar  between 
his  lips,  and  the  vicious  cockatoo  scrambling  up 
his  waistcoat  to  get  at  it;  while  Madame  Fos- 
co,  sitting  opposite  to  her  husband,  watched  the 
proceedings  of  his  bird  and  himself  as  attentive- 
ly as  if  she  had  never  seen  any  thing  of  the  sort 
before  in  her  life.  On  my  way  to  the  planta- 
tion I  kept  carefully  beyond  the  range  of  view 
from  the  luncheon-room  window.  Nobody  saw 
me,  and  nobody  followed  me.  It  was  then  a 
quarter  to  three  o'clock  by  my  watch. 

Once  among  the  trees,  I  walked  rapidly,  nn- 
\\\  I  had  advanced  more  than  half-way  through 
the  plantation.  At  that  point  I  slackened  my 
pace,  and  proceeded  cautiously;  but  I  saw  no 
one,  and  heard  no  voices.  By  little  and  little  I 
came  within  view  of  the  back  of  the  boat-house 
— stopped  and  listened — then  went  on  till  1  was 
close  behind  it,  and  must  have  heard  any  per- 
sons who  had  been  talking  inside.  Still  the  si- 
lence was  unliroken :  still,  far  and  near,  no  sign 
of  a  living  creature  appeared  any  where. 

After  skirting  round  by  the  back  of  the  build- 
ing, first  on  one  side  and  tlicn  on  the  otiier,  and 
making  no  discoveries,  I  ventured  in  front  of  it 
and  fairly  looked  in.     The  place  was  empty. 

I  called  ' '  Laura !"  —  at  first  softly  —  then 
louder  and  louder.    No  one  answered,  and  no 


one  appeared.  For  all  that  I  could  see  and  hear, 
the  only  human  creature  in  the  neighborhood  of 
the  lake  and  the  plantation  was  myself. 

My  heart  began  to  beat  violently  ;  but  I  kept 
my  resolution,  and  searched,  first  the  boat-house 
and  then  the  ground  in  front  of  it,  for  any  signs 
which  might  show  me  whether  Laura  had  real- 
ly reached  the  place  or  not.  No  mark  of  her 
presence  appeared  inside  the  building;  but  I 
found  traces  of  her  outside  it,  in  footsteps  on  the 
sand. 

I  detected  the  footsteps  of  two  persons — large 
footsteps,  like  a  man's,  and  small  footsteps, 
which,  by  putting  my  own  feet  into  them  and 
testing  their  size  in  that  manner,  I  felt  certain 
were  Laura's.  The  ground  was  confusedly 
marked  in  tliis  way  just  before  the  boat-house. 
Close  against  one  side  of  it,  under  shelter  of  the 
projecting  roof,  I  discovered  a  little  hole  in  the 
sand — a  hole  artificially  made,  beyond  a  doubt. 
I  just  noticed  it,  and  tlien  turned  away  imme- 
diately to  trace  the  footstei)S  as  far  as  I  could, 
and  to  follow  the  direction  in  which  they  might 
lead  me. 

They  led  me,  starting  from  the  left-hand  side 
of  the  boat-house,  along  the  edge  of  the  trees, 
a  dist.Tuce,  I  should  think,  of  between  two  and 
three  hundrcil  vartls — and  then  the  saudv  ground 


THE  WOMAIJ  IN  WHITE. 


123 


showed  no  further  trace  of  them.  Feeling  that 
the  persons  whose  course  I  was  tracking  must 
necessarily  have  entered  the  plantation  at  this 
point,  I  entered  it  too.  At  first  I  could  find  no 
path,  but  I  discovered  one  afterward  just  faint- 
ly traced  among  the  trees,  and  followed  it.  It 
took  me,  for  some  distance,  in  the  direction  of 
the  village,  until  I  stopped  at  a  point  where  an- 
other foot-track  crossed  it.  The  brambles  grew 
thickly  on  either  side  of  this  second  path.  I 
stood,  looking  down  it,  uncertain  which  way  to 
take  next ;  and,  while  I  looked,  I  saw  on  one 
thorny  branch  some  fragments  of  fringe  from  a 
woman's  shawl.  A  closer  examination  of  the 
fringe  satisfied  me  that  it  had  been  torn  from  a 
shawl  of  Laura's,  and  I  iustantly  followed  the 
second  path.  It  brought  me  out  at  last,  to  my 
great  relief,  at  the  back  of  the  house.  I  say  to 
my  great  relief,  because  I  inferred  that  Laura 
must,  for  some  unknown  reason,  have  returned 
before  me  by  this  roundabout  way.  I  went  in 
by  the  court-yard  and  the  othces.  The  first  per- 
son whom  I  met  in  crossing  the  servants'-hall 
was  Mrs.  Michelson,  the  housekeeper. 

"Do  you  know,"  I  asked,  "whether  Lady 
Glyde  has  come  in  from  her  walk  or  not?" 

"  My  lady  came  in  a  little  while  ago  with  Sir 
Percival,"  answered  the  housekeeper.  "  I  am 
afraid,  IMiss  Halcombe,  something  very  distress- 
ing has  happened." 

My  heart  sank  within  me.  "You  don't  mean 
an  accident !"  I  said,  faintly. 

"  No,  no — thank  God,  no  accident !  But  my 
lady  ran  up  stairs  to  her  own  room  in  tears ; 
and  Sir  Percival  has  ordered  me  to  give  Fanny 
warning  to  leave  in  an  hour's  time." 

Fanny  was  Laura's  maid  ;  a  good,  affection- 
ate girl,  who  had  been  with  her  for  years — the 
only  person  in  the  house  whose  fidelity  and  de- 
votion we  could  both  depend  upon. 

"Where  is  Fanny?"  I  inquired. 

"In  my  room.  Miss  Halcombe.  The  young 
woman  is  quite  overcome,  and  I  told  her  to  sit 
down  and  try  to  recover  herself." 

I  went  to  JMrs.  Michelson's  room,  and  found 
Fanny  in  a  corner,  with  her  box  by  her  side, 
crying  bitterly. 

She  could  give  me  no  explanation  whatever 
of  her  sudden  dismissal.  Sir  Fercival  had  or- 
dered that  she  should  have  a  month's  wages,  in 
place  of  a  month's  warning,  and  go.  No  rea- 
son had  been  assigned ;  no  objection  had  been 
made  to  her  conduct.  She  had  been  forbidden 
to  a])peal  to  her  mistress,  forbidden  even  to  see 
her  for  a  moment  to  say  good-by.  She  was  to 
go  without  explanations  or  farewells,  and  to  go 
at  once. 

After  soothing  the  poor  girl  by  a  few  friendly 
words,  I  asked  where  she  proposed  to  sleep  that 
night.  Slie  replied  that  she  thought  of  going 
to  the  little  inn  in  the  village,  the  landlady  of 
which  was  a  respectable  woman,  known  to  the 
servants  at  Blackwater  Park.  The  next  morn- 
ing, by  leaving  early,  she  might  get  back  to  her 
friends  in  Cumberland,  without  stopping  in  Lon- 
don, where  she  was  a  total  stranger. 

I  felt  directly  that  Fanny's  departure  offered 
us  a  safe  means  of  communication  with  Lon- 
don and  with  Limmeridge  House,  of  which  it 
might  be  very  important  to  avail  ourselves.  Ac- 
cordingly, I  told  her  that  she  might  expect  to 
hear  from  her  mistress  or  from  me  in  tlie  course 


of  the  evening,  and  that  she  might  depend  on 
our  both  doing  all  that  lay  in  our  power  to  help 
her,  under  the  trial  of  leaving  ns  for  the  pres- 
ent. Those  words  said,  I  shook  hands  with  her 
and  went  up  stairs. 

The  door  which  led  to  Laura's  room  was  the 
door  of  an  ante-chamber,  opening  on  to  the 
passage.  When  I  tried  it,  it  was  bolted  on  the 
inside. 

I  knocked,  and  the  door  was  opened  by  the 
same  heavy,  overgrown  housemaid,  whose  lump- 
ish insensibility  had  tried  my  patience  so  se- 
verely on  the  day  when  I  found  the  wounded 
dog.  I  had,  since  that  time,  discovered  that 
her  name  was  Margaret  Poixher,  and  that  she 
was  the  most  awkward,  slatternly,  and  obstinate 
servant  in  the  house. 

On  opening  the  door  she  instantly  stepped 
out  to  the  threshold,  and  stood  grinning  at  me 
in  stolid  silence. 

' '  Why  do  yon  stand  there  ?"  I  said.  "  Don't 
you  see  that  I  want  to  come  in?" 

"Ah,  but  you  mustn't  come  in,"  was  the  an- 
swer, with  another  and  a  broader  grin  still. 

"How  dare  you  talk  to  me  in  that  way? 
Stand  back  instantly !" 

She  stretched  out  a  great  red  hand  and  arm 
on  each  side  of  her,  so  as  to  bar  the  door-way, 
and  slowly  nodded  her  addle  head  at  me. 

"  Master's  orders,"  she  said ;  and  nodded 
again. 

I  had  need  of  all  my  self-control  to  warn  me 
against  contesting  the  matter  with  htr,  and  to 


124 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


remind  me  that  the  next  words  I  had  to  say 
must  be  addressed  to  her  master.  I  turned  my 
back  on  her,  and  instantly  went  down  stairs  to 
find  him.  My  resolution  to  keep  my  temper, 
under  all  the  irritations  that  Sir  Percival  could 
offer,  was  by  this  time  as  com]>letely  forgotten 
— I  say  so  to  my  shame — as  if  I  had  never 
made  it.  It  did  me  good — after  all  I  had  suf- 
fered and  suppressed  in  that  house — it  actually 
did  me  good  to  feel  how  angry  I  was. 

The  drawing-room  and  the  breakfast-room 
were  both  empty.  I  went  on  to  the  library, 
and  there  I  found  Sir  Percival,  the  Count,  and 
Madame  Fosco.  They  were  all  three  standing 
up,  close  together,  and  Sir  Percival  had  a  little 
slip  of  paper  in  his  hand.  As  I  opened  the  door 
I  heard  the  Count  say  to  him,  "  No — a  thousand 
times  over,  No." 

I  walked  straight  up  to  him,  and  looked  him 
full  in  the  face. 

"  Am  I  to  understand,  Sir  Percival,  that  your 
wife's  room  is  a  prison,  and  that  your  house- 
maid is  the  jailer  who  keeps  it?"  I  asked. 

"  Yes  ;  that  is  what  you  are  to  understand," 
he  answered.  "  Take  care  my  jailer  hasn't  got 
double  duty  to  do — take  care  your  room  is  not 
a  prison  too." 

"  Take  you  care  how  you  treat  your  wife,  and 
how  you  threaten  ?«e,"  I  broke  out,  in  the  heat 
of  my  anger.  "  There  are  laws  in  England  to 
protect  women  from  cruelty  and  outrage.  If 
you  hurt  a  hair  of  Laura's  head,  if  you  dare  to 
interfere  with  my  freedom,  come  what  come 
may,  to  those  laws  I  will  appeal." 

Instead  of  answering  me,  he  turned  round  to 
the  Count. 

"  What  did  I  tell  you  ?"  he  asked.  "  What 
do  you  say  now  ?" 

"  What  I  said  before,"  replied  the  Count — 
"No." 

Even  in  the  vehemence  of  my  anger  I  felt  his 
calm,  cold,  gray  eyes  on  my  face.  They  turned 
away  from  me  as  soon  as  he  had  spoken,  and 
looked  significantly  at  his  wife.  Madame  Fosco 
immediately  moved  close  to  my  side,  and  in  that 
position  addressed  Sir  Percival  before  either  of 
us  could  speak  again. 

"Favor  me  with  your  attention  for  one  mo- 
ment," she  said,  in  her  clear,  icily-suppressed 
tones.  "I  have  to  thank  you.  Sir  Percival,  for 
your  hospitality,  and  to  decline  taking  advant- 
age of  it  any  longer.  I  remain  in  no  house  in 
which  ladies  are  treated  as  your  wife  and  Miss 
Halcombe  have  been  treated  here  to-day !" 

Sir  Percival  drew  back  a  step,  and  stared  at 
her  in  dead  silence.  The  declaration  he  had 
just  heard— a  declaration  which  he  well  knew, 
as  I  well  knew,  Madame-  Fosco  would  not  have 
ventured  to  make  without  her  husband's  ])er- 
mission — seemed  to  petrify  him  with  surprise. 
The  Count  stood  by,  and  looked  at  his  wife  with 
the  most  entliusiastic  admiration. 

"  She  is  sublime  !"  he  said  to  himself.  He 
approached  her  while  he  sj)oke,  and  drew  her 
hand  through  his  arm.  "  I  am  at  your  service, 
Eleanor,"  he  went  on,  with  a  quiet  dignity  that 
I  had  never  noticed  in  him  before.  "And  at 
IMiss  Ilalcombe's  service,  if  she  will  honor  me 
by  accepting  all  the  assistance  I  can  offer  her." 

"  Damn  it !  what  do  you  mean  ?"  cried  Sir 
Percival,  as  the  Count  quietly  moved  away,  with 
his  wife,  to  the  door. 


"  At  other  times  I  mean  what  I  say,  but  at 
this  time  I  mean  what  my  wife  says,"  replied 
the  impenetrable  Italian.  "  We  have  changed 
places,  Percival,  for  once  ;  and  Madame  Fosco's 
opinion  is — mine." 

Sir  Percival  crumpled  up  the  paper  in  his 
hand,  and,  pushing  past  the  Count,  with  an- 
other oath,  stood  between  him  and  the  door. 

"  Have  your  own  way,"  he  said,  with  baffled 
rage  in  his  low,  half-whispering  tones.  "  Have 
your  own  way  —  and  see  what  comes  of  it." 
With  those  words  he  left  the  room. 

Madame  Fosco  glanced  inquiringly  at  her 
husband.  "  He  has  gone  away  very  suddenly," 
she  said.     "  What  does  it  mean  ?" 

"It  means  that  you  and  I  together  have 
brought  the  worst-tempered  man  in  all  England 
to  his  senses,"  answered  the  Count.  "  It  means. 
Miss  Halcombe,  that  Lady  Clyde  is  relieved 
from  a  gross  indignitj^,  and  you  from  the  repe- 
tition of  an  unj)ardonable  insult.  Suffer  me  to 
express  my  admiration  of  your  conduct  and  your 
courage  at  a  ver}'  trying  moment." 

"Sincere  admiration,"  suggested  Madame 
Fosco. 

"  Sincere  admiration,"  echoed  the  Count. 

I  had  no  longer  the  strength  of  my  first  angiy 
resistance  to  outrage  and  injury  to  support  me. 
My  heart-sick  anxiety  to  see  Laura,  my  sense 
of  my  own  helpless  ignorance  of  what  had  hap- 
pened at  the  boat-house,  pressed  on  me  with  an 
intolerable  weight.  I  tried  to  keep  up  appear- 
ances by  speaking  to  the  Count  and  his  Mife  in 
the  tone  which  they  had  chosen  to  adopt  in 
speaking  to  me.  But  the  words  failed  on  my 
lips— my  breath  came  short  and  thick — my  eyes 
looked  longingly,  in  silence,  at  the  door.  The 
Count,  understanding  my  anxiety,  opened  it, 
went  out,  and  jmlled  it  to  after  him.  At  the 
same  time  Sir  Percival's  heavy  step  descended 
the  stairs.  I  heard  them  whispering  together 
outside,  while  Madame  Fosco  Avas  assuring  me, 
in  her  calmest  and  most  conventional  manner, 
that  she  rejoiced,  for  all  our  sakes,  that  Sir  Per- 
cival's conduct  had  not  obliged  her  husband  and 
herself  to  leave  Blackwater  Park.  Before  she 
had  done  speaking  the  whispering  ceased,  the 
door  opened,  and  the  Count  looked  in. 

"Miss  Halcombe,"  he  said,  "I  am  happy  to 
inform  you  that  Lady  Glyde  is  mistress  again  in 
her  own  house.  I  thought  it  might  be  more 
agreeable  to  you  to  hear  of  this  change  for  the 
better  from  me  than  from  Sir  Percival,  and  I 
have  therefore  ex]iressly  returned  to  mention  it." 

"Admirable  delicacy!"  said  Madame  Fosco, 
paying  back  her  husliand's  tribute  of  admira- 
tion with  the  Count's  own  coin,  in  the  Count's 
own  manner.  He  smiled  and  bowed  as  if  he 
had  received  a  formal  compliment  from  a  polite 
stranger,  and  drew  back  to  let  me  pass  out  first. 

Sir  Percival  was  standing  in  the  hall.  As  I 
hurried  to  the  stairs  I  heard  him  call  impatient- 
ly to  the  Count  to  come  out  of  tlie  librar\'. 

"What  are  you  waiting  therefor?"  he  said; 
"I  want  to  speak  to  you." 

"  And  I  want  to  think  a  little  by  myself,"  re- 
plied tlie  other.  "Wait  till  later,  Percival — 
wait  till  later." 

Neither  he  nor  his  friend  said  any  more.  I' 
gained  the  top  of  the  staii's,  and  ran  along  the 
passage.  In  my  haste  and  my  agitation  I  left 
the  door  of  the  ante-chamber  open  ;  but  I  closed 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


125 


the  door  of  the  bedroom  the  moment  I  was  in- 
side it. 

Laura  was  sitting  alone  at  the  far  end  of  the 
room  ;  her  arms  resting  wearily  on  a  table,  and 
her  face  hidden  in  her  hands.  She  started  np, 
with  a  cry  of  delight,  when  she  saw  me. 

"  How  did  you  get  here  ?"  she  asked.  "  Who 
gave  you  leave  ?     Not  Sir  Percival  ?" 

In  my  overpowering  anxiety  to  hear  what  she 
had  to  tell  me  I  could  not  answer  her — I  could 
only  put  questions,  on  my  side.  Laura's  eager- 
ness to  know  what  had  passed  down  stairs  proved, 
however,  too  strong  to  l)e  resisted.  She  persist- 
ently repeated  her  inquiries. 

"The  Count,  of  course!"  I  answered,  impa- 
tiently.    "Whose  influence  in  the  house — ?" 

She  stopped  me  with  a  gesture  of  disgust. 

"Don't  speak  of  him,"  she  cried.  "The 
Count  is  the  vilest  creature  breathing!  The 
Count  is  a  miserable  Spy — !" 

Before  we  could  either  of  vis  say  another 
word  we  were  alarmed  by  a  soft  knocking  at 
the  door  of  the  bedroom. 

I  had  not  yet  sat  down ;  and  I  went  first  to 
see  who  it  was.  Wlien  I  opened  the  door, 
Madame  Fosco  confronted  me  with  my  hand- 
kerchief in  her  hand. 

"  You  dropped  this  down  stairs,  Miss  Hal- 
combe,"  she  said;  "and  I  thought  I  could 
bring  it  to  you  as  I  was  passing  by  to  my  own 
room." 

Her  face,  natui'ally  pale,  had  turned  to  such 
a  ghastly  whiteness  that  I  started  at  the  sight 
of  it.  Her  hands,  so  sure  and  steady  at  all 
other  times,  trembled  violently ;  and  her  eyes 
looked  woltishly  past  me  through  the  open  door, 
and  fixed  on  Laura. 

She  had  been  listening  before  she  knocked! 
I  saw  it  in  her  white  face  ;  I  saw  it  in  her  trem- 
bling hands ;  I  saw  it  in  her  look  at  Laura. 

After  waiting  an  instant  she  turned  from  me 
in  silence,  and  slowly  walked  away. 

I  closed  the  door  again.  "Oh,  Laura!  Lau- 
ra !  we  shall  both  rue  the  day  when  you  spoke 
those  words !" 

"  You  would  have  spoken  them  yourself,  Ma- 
rian, if  you  had  known  what  I  know.  Anne 
Catherick  was  right.  There  was  a  third  person 
watching  us  in  the  plantation  yesterday;  and 
that  third  person — " 

"Are  you  sure  it  was  the  Count?" 

"I  am  absolutely  certain.  He  was  Sir  Per- 
cival's  spy — he  was  Sir  Percival's  informer — he 
set  Sir  Percival  watching  and  waiting,  all  the 
morning  through,  for  Anne  Catherick  and  for 
me." 

"Is  Anne  found?  Did  you  see  her  at  the 
lake?" 

"  No.  She  has  saved  herself  by  keeping  away 
from  the  place.  When  I  got  to  the  boat-house 
no  one  was  there." 

"Yes?  yes?" 

"I  went  in  and  sat  waiting  for  a  few  min- 
utes. But  my  restlessness  made  me  get  up  again 
to  walk  about  a  little.  As  I  passed  out  I  saw 
some  marks  on  the  sand  close  under  the  front 
of  the  boat-house.  I  stooped  down  to  examine 
them,  and  discovered  a  word  written  in  large 
letters  on  the  sand.     The  word  was— look." 

"And  you  scraped  away  the  sand  and  dug  a 
hollow  place  in  it  ?" 

"  How  do  you  know  that,  Marian?" 


"I  saw  the  hollow  place  myself  when  I  fol- 
lowed  you  to  the  boat-house.     Go  on — go  on !" 

"Yes;  I  scraped  away  the  sand  on  the  sur- 
face ;  and  in  a  little  while  I  came  to  a  strip  of 
paper  hidden  beneath,  which  had  writing  on  it. 
The  writing  was  signed  with  Anne  Catherick'* 
initials." 

"Where  is  it?" 

"  Sir  Percival  has  taken  it  from  me." 

"Can  you  remember  what  the  writing  was 3 
Do  you  think  you  can  repeat  it  to  me." 

"In  substance  I  can,  Marian.  It  was  verv 
short.  You  would  have  remembered  it  wortl 
for  word." 

"Try  to  tell  me  what  the  substance  was  be- 
fore we  go  any  further." 

She  complied.  I  write  the  lines  down  here 
exactly  as  she  repeated  them  to  me.  They  ran 
thus : 

"I  was  seen  with  you  yesterday  by  a  tall, 
stout  old  man,  and  had  to  run  to  save  myself. 
He  was  not  quick  enough  on  his  feet  to  follow 
me,  and  he  lost  me  among  the  trees.  I  dare 
not  risk  coming  back  here  to-day  at  the  same 
time.  I  write  this,  and  hide  it  in  the  sand,  at 
six  in  the  morning,  to  tell  you  so.  When  we 
speak  next  of  your  wicked  husband's  Secret  we 
must  speak  safely,  or  not  at  all.  Try  to  have 
patience.  I  promise  you  shall  see  me  again  ; 
and  that  soon. — A.  C." 

The  reference  to  the  "tall,  stout  old  man" 
(the  terms  of  which  Laura  was  certain  that  she 
had  repeated  to  me  correctly)  left  no  doubt  aa 
to  who  the  intruder  had  been.  I  called  to  mind 
that  I  had  told  Sir  Percival,  in  the  Count's 
presence,  the  day  before,  that  Laura  had  gone 
to  the  boat-house  to  look  for  her  brooch.  In 
all  probability  he  had  followed  her  there,  in  his 
officious  way,  to  relieve  her  mind  about  the 
matter  of  the  signature,  immediately  after  he 
had  mentioned  the  change  in  Sir  Percival's 
plans  to  me  in  the  drawing-room.  In  this  case 
he  could  only  have  got  to  the  neighborhood  of 
the  boat-house  at  the  very  moment  when  Anne 
Catherick  discovered  him.  The  suspiciously 
hurried  manner  in  which  she  parted  from  Lau- 
ra had  no  doubt  prompted  his  useless  attempt 
to  follow  her.  Of  tlie  conversation  which  had 
previously  taken  place  between  them  he  could 
have  heard  nothing.  The  distance  between  the 
house  and  the  lake,  and  the  time  at  which  he 
left  me  in  the  drawing-room,  as  compared  with 
the  time  at  which  Laura  and  Anne  Catherick 
had  been  speaking  together,  proved  that  fact  to 
us,  at  any  rate,  beyond  a  doubt. 

Having  an-ived  at  something  like  a  conclu- 
sion so  far,  my  next  great  interest  was  to  know 
what  discoveries  Sir  Percival  had  made  after 
Count  Fosco  had  given  him  his  information. 

"  How  came  you  to  lose  possession  of  the  let- 
ter?" I  asked.  "What  did  you  do  with  it  when 
yon  found  it  in  the  sand  ?" 

"After  reading  it  once  through,"  she  replied, 
"I  took  it  into  the  boat-house  with  me,  to  sit 
down  and  look  it  over  a  second  time.  While  I 
was  reading  a  shadow  fell  across  the  paper.  I 
looked  up,  and  saw  Sir  Percival  standing  iu  the 
door-way  watching  me." 

"Did" you  try  to  hide  the  letter?" 

"  I  tried — but  he  stopped  me.  '  You  needn't 
trouble  to  hide  that,'  he  said.     'I  happen  to 


126 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


have  read  it.'  I  could  only  look  at  him  help- 
lessly— 1  could  say  nothing.  '  You  understand?' 
he  Ment  on ;  'I  have  read  it.  I  dug  it  up  out 
of  the  sand  two  hours  since,  and  buried  it  again, 
and  wrote  the  word  above  it  again,  and  left  it 
ready  to  your  hands.  You  can't  lie  yourself  out 
of  the  scrape  now.  You  saw  Anne  Catherick  in 
secret  yesterday ;  and  you  have  got  her  letter 
in  your  hand  at  this  moment.  I  have  not  caught 
her  yet ;  but  I  have  caught  you.  Give  me  the 
letter.'  He  stepped  close  up  to  me  —  I  was 
alone  with  him,  Marian — what  could  I  do? — I 
gave  him  the  letter." 

"  What  did  he  say  when  you  gave  it  to  him  1" 

"At  first  he  said  nothing.  He  took  me  by 
the  arm,  and  led  me  out  of  the  boat-house,  and 
looked  about  him  on  all  sides,  as  if  he  was  afraid 
of  our  being  seen  or  heard.  Then  he  clasped 
his  hand  fast  round  my  arm,  and  whispered  to 
me — '  What  did  Anne  Catherick  say  to  you  yes- 
terday"! I  insist  on  hearing  every  word,  from 
first  to  last.' " 

"Did  you  tell  him?" 

"I  was  alone  with  him,  Marian — his  cruel 
hand  was  bruising  my  arm — what  could  I  do!" 

"  Is  the  mark  on  your  arm  still !  Let  me  see 
it!" 

"Why  do  yon  want  to  see  it?" 

"  I  want  to  see  it,  Laura,  because  our  endur- 
ance must  end,  and  our  resistance  must  liegin, 
to-day.  That  mark  is  a  weapon  to  strike  him 
witli.  Let  me  see  it  now — I  may  have  to  swear 
to  it  at  some  future  time." 

"Oh,  Marian,  don't  look  so!  don't  talk  so! 
It  doesn't  hurt  me  now !" 

"  Let  me  see  it!" 

She  showed  me  the  marks.  I  was  past  griev- 
ing over  them,  past  crying  over  them,  past  shud- 
dering over  them.  They  say  we  are  cither  bet- 
ter than  men,  or  worse.  If  the  temptation  that 
has  fallen  in  some  women's  way,  and  made  them 
worse,  had  fallen  in  mine  at  that  moment — 
Thank  God !  my  face  betrayed  nothing  that  his 
wife  could  read.  The  gentle,  innocent,  affec- 
tionate creature  thought  I  was  frightened  for 
her  and  sorry  for  her — and  thought  no  more. 

"  Don't  think  too  seriously  of  it,  Marian," 
she  said,  simjjly,  as  she  pulled  her  sleeve  down 
again.     "It  doesn't  hurt  me  now." 

"I  will  try  to  think  quietly  of  it,  my  love,  for 
your  sake.  Well!  well!  And  you  told  him 
all  that  Anne  Catherick  had  said  to  you — all 
that  you  told  me  !" 

"Yes,  all.  He  insisted  on  it — I  was  alone 
with  him — I  could  conceal  nothing." 

"  Did  he  say  any  thing  when  you  had  done  ?" 

"He  looked  at  me,  and  laughed  to  himself, 
in  a  mocking,  bitter  way.  '  I  mean  to  have  the 
rest  out  of  you,'  he  said;  'do  you  hear! — the 
rest.'  I  declared  to  him  solemnly  that  I  had 
told  him  everything  I  knew.  'Not  you!'  he 
answered;  'you  know  more  than  you  choose  to 
tell.  Won't  you  tell  it!  You  shall !  I'll  wring 
it  out  of  3'ou  at  home  if  I  can't  wring  it  out  of 
you  here.'  He  led  me  away  by  a  strange  path 
through  the  plantation — a  path  where  there  was 
no  hope  of  our  meeting  yoii — and  he  sj)oke  no 
more  till  we  came  within  sight  of  the  house. 
Then  he  stop])cd  again,  and  said,  '  Will  you  take 
a  second  chance  if  I  give  it  to  you  !  Will  you 
think  better  of  it,  and  tell  me  the  rest !'  I  could 
only  repeat  the  same  words  I  had  spoken  before. 


He  cursed  my  obstinacy,  and  went  on,  and  rooR 
me  with  him  to  the  house.  '  You  can't  deceive 
me,'  he  said ;  '  you  know  more  than  you  choose 
to  tell.  I'll  have  your  secret  out  of  you ;  and 
I'll  have  it  out  of  that  sister  of  yours  as  well. 
There  shall  be  no  more  plotting  and  whispering 
between  you.  Neither  you  nor  she  shall  see 
each  other  again  till  you  have  confessed  the 
truth.  I'll  have  you  watched  morning,  noon, 
and  night  till  you  confess  the  truth.'  He  was 
deaf  to  every  thing  I  could  say.  He  took  me 
straight  up  stairs  into  my  own  room.  Fanny 
was  sitting  there  doing  some  work  for  me,  and 
he  instantly  ordered  her  out.  'I'll  take  good 
care  you're  not  mixed  up  in  the  conspiracy,'  he 
said.  'You  shall  leave  this  house  to-day.  If 
your  mistress  wants  a  maid  she  shall  have  one 
of  my  choosing.'  He  pushed  me  into  the  room 
and  locked  the  door  on  me — he  set  that  sense- 
less woman  to  watch  me  outside — Marian !  he 
looked  and  spoke  like  a  madman.  You  may 
hardly  understand  it — he  did,  indeed." 

'"I  do  understand  it,  Laura.  He  is  mad — 
mad  with  the  terrors  of  a  guilty  conscience. 
Every  word  you  have  said  makes  me  positively 
certain  that  when  Anne  Catherick  left  you  yes- 
terday you  were  on  the  eve  of  discovering  a  se- 
cret which  might  have  been  your  vile  husband's 
ruin  —  and  he  thinks  3'ou  /lave  discovered  it. 
Nothing  you  can  say  or  do  will  quiet  that  guilty 
distrust,  and  convince  his  false  nature  of  your 
truth.  I  don't  say  this,  my  love,  to  alarm  you. 
I  say  it  to  open  your  eyes  to  your  position,  and 
to  convince  you  of  the  urgent  necessity  of  letting 
me  act  as  I  best  can  for  your  protection  while 
the  chance  is  our  own.  Count  Fosco's  interfer- 
ence has  secured  me  access  to  you  to-day ;  but 
he  may  withdraw  that  interference  to-morrow. 
.Sir  Percival  has  already  dismissed  Fanny,  be- 
cause she  is  a  quick-witted  girl  and  devotedly 
attached  to  you,  and  has  chosen  a  woman  to 
take  her  place  who  cares  nothing  for  your  inter- 
ests, and  whose  dull  intelligence  lowers  her  to 
the  level  of  the  watch-dog  in  the  yard.  It  is 
impossible  to  say  what  violent  measures  he  may 
take  next,  unless  we  make  the  most  of  our  op- 
portunities while  we  have  them." 

"  What  can  we  do,  Marian  ?  Oh,  if  we  could 
only  leave  this  house,  never  to  see  it  again  ?" 

"Listen  to  me,  my  love ;  and  try  to  think  that 
you  are  not  quite  helpless  so  long  as  I  am  here 
with  you." 

"  I  will  think  so — I  do  think  so.  Don't  alto- 
gether forget  poor  Fanny  in  thinking  of  me. 
yhe  wants  help  and  comfort  too." 

"I  will  not  forget  her.  I  saw  her  before  I 
came  up  here,  and  I  have  arranged  to  com- 
municate with  her  to-night.  Letters  are  not 
safe  in  the  post-bag  at  Blackwater  Park ;  and 
I  shall  have  two  to  write  to-day,  in  your  inter- 
ests, which  must  pass  through  no  hands  but 
Fannv's." 

"What  letters?" 

"I  mean  to  urite  first,  Laura,  to  IMr.  Gil- 
more's  partner,  who  has  offered  to  helji  ns  in 
any  fresh  emergency.  Little  as  I  know  of  the 
law,  I  am  certain  that  it  can  protect  a  woman 
from  sucli  treatment  as  that  ruffian  has  inflicted 
on  you  to-day.  I  will  go  into  no  details  about 
Anne  Catherick,  because  I  have  no  certain  in- 
formation to  give.  But  the  lawyer  shall  know 
of  those  bruises  on  your  arm,  and  of  the  violence 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


127 


offered  to  you  in  this  room — he  shall,  before  I 
rest  to-night!" 

"But  think  of  the  exposure,  Marian!" 

"I  am  calculating;  on  the  exposure.  Sir  Per- 
cival  has  more  to  dread  from  it  than  you  have. 
The  prospect  of  an  exposure  may  bring  him  to 
terms  when  nothing  else  will." 

I  rose  as  I  spoke,  but  Laura  entreated  me 
not  to  leave  her. 

"  You  will  drive  him  to  desperation,"  she  said, 
"and  increase  our  dangers  ten-fold." 

I  felt  the  truth — the  disheartening  truth — of 
those  words.  But  I  could  not  bring  myself 
plainly  to  acknowledge  it  to  her.  In  our  dread- 
ful position  there  was  no  help  and  no  hope  for 
us  but  in  risking  the  worst.  I  said  so  in  guard- 
ed terms.  She  sighed  bitterly,  but  did  not  con- 
test the  matter.  She  only  asked  about  the  sec- 
ond letter  that  I  had  proposed  writing.  To 
whom  was  it  to  be  addressed  ? 

"To  Mr.  Fairlie,"  I  said.  "Your  uncle  is 
your  nearest  male  relative,  and  the  head  of  the 
family.     He  must  and  shall  interfere." 

Laura  shook  her  head  sorrowfully. 

"Yes,  yes,"  I  went  on;  "your  uncle  is  a 
weak,  selfish,  worldly  man,  I  know.  But  he  is 
not  Sir  Percival  Glyde,  and  he  has  no  such 
friend  about  him  as  Count  Fosco.  I  expect  no- 
thing from  his  kindness,  or  his  tenderness  of 
feeling  toward  you,  or  toward  me.  But  he  will 
do  any  thing  to  pamper  his  own  indolence,  and 
to  secure  his  own  quiet.  Let  me  only  persuade 
him  that  his  interference  at  this  moment  will 
save  him  inevitable  trouble,  and  wretchedness, 
and  responsibility  hereafter,  and  he  will  bestir 
himself  for  his  own  sake.  I  know  how  to  deal 
with  him,  Laura — I  have  had  some  practice." 

"  If  you  could  only  prevail  on  liim  to  let  me 
go  back  to  Limmeridge  for  a  little  while,  and 
stay  there  quietly  with  you,  Marian,  I  would  be 
almost  as  happy  again  as  I  was  before  I  was 
married !" 

Those  words  set  me  thinking  in  a  new  direc- 
tion. Would  it  be  possible  to  place  Sir  Perci- 
val between  the  two  alternatives  of  either  expos- 
ing himself  to  the  scandal  of  legal  interference 
on  his  wife's  behalf,  or  of  allowing  her  to  be 
quietly  separated  from  him  for  a  time,  under 
pretext  of  a  visit  to  her  uncle's  house  ?  And 
could  he,  in  that  case,  be  reckoned  on  as  likely 
to  accept  the  last  resource  ?  It  was  doubtful — 
more  than  doubtful.  And  yet,  hopeless  as  the 
experiment  seemed,  surely  it  was  worth  trying. 
I  resolved  to  try  it,  in  sheer  despair  of  knowing 
what  better  to  do. 

"Your  uncle  shall  know  the  wish  you  have 
just  expressed,"  I  said ;  "  and  I  will  ask  the 
lawyer's  advice  on  the  subject  as  well.  Good 
may  come  of  it — and  will  come  of  it,  I  hope." 

Saying  that,  I  rose  again ;  and  again  Laura 
tried  to  make  me  resume  my  seat. 

"Don't  leave  me,"  she  said,  uneasily.  "My 
desk  is  on  that  table.     You  can  write  here." 

It  tried  me  to  the  quick  to  refuse  her,  even  in 
her  own  interests.  But  we  had  been  too  long 
shut  up  alone  together  already.  Our  chance  of 
seeing  each  other  again  might  entirely  depend 
on  our  not  exciting  any  fresh  suspicions.  It  was 
full  time  to  show  myself,  quietly  and  uncon- 
cernedly, among  the  wretches  who  were  at  that 
very  moment,  perhaps,  thinking  of  us  and  talk- 
ing of  us  down  stairs.     I  explained  the  miser- 


able necessity  to  Laura,  and  prevailed  on  her 
to  recognize  it,  as  I  did. 

"I  will  come  back  again,  love,  in  an  hour  or 
less,"  I  said.  "The  worst  is  over  for  to-day. 
Keep  yourself  quiet,  and  fear  nothing." 

"Is  the  key  in  the  door,  Marian?  Can  I 
lock  it  on  the  inside  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  here  is  the  key.  Lock  the  door,  and 
open  it  to  nobody  until  I  come  up  stairs  again." 

I  kissed  her,  and  left  her.  It  was  a  relief  to 
me,  as  I  walked  away,  to  hear  the  ke\'  turned  in 
the  lock,  and  to  know  that  the  door  was  at  her 
own  command. 

I  had  only  got  as  far  as  the  top  of  the  stairs 
when  the  locking  of  Laura's  door  suggested  to 
me  the  precaution  of  also  locking  my  own  door, 
and  keeping  the  key  safely  about  me  while  I 
was  out  of  the  room.  My  journal  was  already 
secured,  with  other  papers,  in  the  table-drawer, 
but  my  writing  materials  were  left  out.  These 
included  a  seal,  bearing  the  common  device  of 
two  doves  drinking  out  of  the  same  cup ;  and 
some  sheets  of  blotting-paper,  which  had  the 
imjiression  on  them  of  the  closing  lines  of  my 
writing  in  these  pages  traced  during  the  past 
night.  Distorted  by  the  suspicion  which  had 
now  become  a  part  of  myself,  even  such  trifles 
as  these  looked  too  dangerous  to  be  trusted 
without  a  guard — even  the  locked  table-drawer 
seemed  to  be  not  sufficiently  protected  in  my  ab- 
sence, until  the  means  of  access  to  it  had  been 
carefully  secured  as  well. 

I  found  no  appearance  of  any  one  having  en- 
tered the  room  while  I  had  been  talking  with 
Laura.  My  writing  materials  (which  I  had  giv- 
en the  servants  instructions  never  to  meddle  with) 
were  scattered  over  the  table  much  as  usual. 
The  only  circumstance  in  connection  with  them 
that  at  all  struck  me  was,  that  the  seal  lay  tidi- 
ly in  the  tray  with  the  pencils  and  the  wax.  It 
was  not  in  my  careless  habits  (I  am  sorry  to  say) 
to  put  it  there  ;  neither  did  I  remember  putting 
it  there.  But  as  I  could  not  call  to  mind,  on 
the  other  hand,  where  else  I  had  thrown  it 
down,  and  as  I  was  also  doubtful  whether  I 
might  not  for  once  have  laid  it  mechanically  in 
the  right  place,  I  abstained  from  adding  to  the 
perplexity  with  which  the  day's  events  had  filled 
my  mind,  by  troubling  it  afresh  about  a  trifle. 
I  locked  the  door,  put  the  key  in  my  pocket,  and 
went  down  stairs. 

Madame  Fosco  was  alone  in  the  hall  looking 
at  the  weatlier-glass. 

"  Still  falling,"  she  said.  "  I  am  afraid  we 
must  expect  more  rain." 

Her  face  was  composed  again  to  its  customa- 
ry expression  and  its  customary  color.  But  the 
hand  with  which  she  pointed  to  the  dial  of  the 
weather-glass  still  trembled.  Could  she  have 
told  her  husband  already  that  she  had  overheard 
Laura  reviling  him  in  my  company  as  a  "Spy?" 
My  strong  suspicion  that  she  must  have  told 
him  ;  my  irresistible  dread  (all  the  more  over- 
powering from  its  very  vagueness)  of  the  conse- 
quences which  might  follow ;  my  fixed  convic- 
tion, derived  from  various  little  self-betrayals 
which  women  notice  in  each  other,  that  Ma- 
dame Fosco,  in  spite  of  her  well-assumed  ex- 
ternal civility,  had  not  forgiven  her  niece  for  in- 
nocently standing  between  her  and  the  legacy 
of  ten  thousand  pounds — all  rushed  upon  my 
mind  together;  all  impelled  me  to  speak,  in  the 


128 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


vain  hope  of  using  my  own  influence  and  my 
own  powers  of  persuasion  for  the  atonement  of 
Laura's  offense. 

"  May  I  trust  to  your  kindness  to  excuse  me, 
Madame  Fosco,  if  I  venture  to  speak  to  you  on 
an  exeeedinp;ly  painful  subject?" 

She  crossed  her  hands  in  front  of  her,  and 
bowed  her  head  solemnly,  without  uttering  a 
word,  and  without  taking  her  eyes  off  mine  for  a 
moment. 

"  When  you  were  so  good  as  to  bring  me  back 
my  handkerchief,"  I  went  on,  "I  am  very,  very 
much  afraid  you  must  have  accidentally  heard 
Laura  say  something  which  I  am  unwilling  to 
repeat,  and  which  I  will  not  attempt  to  defend. 
I  will  only  venture  to  hope  that  you  have  not 
thought  it  of  sufficient  importance  to  be  men- 
tioned to  the  Count  ?" 

"I  think  it  of  no  importance  whatever,"  said 
Madame  Fosco,  sharply  and  suddenly.  "  But," 
she  added,  resuming  her  icy  manner  in  a  mo- 
ment, "I  have  no  secrets  from  my  husband, 
even  in  trifles.  When  he  noticed,  just  now, 
that  I  looked  distressed,  it  was  my  painful  duty 
to  tell  him  why  I  was  distressed;  and  I  frankly 
acknowledge  to  you,  Miss  Halcombe,  that  I  have 
told  him." 

I  was  prepared  to  hear  it,  and  yet  she  turned 
me  cold  all  over  when  she  said  those  words. 

"  Let  me  earnestly  entreat  you,  Madame  Fosco 
— let  me  earnestly  entreat  the  Count — to  make 
some  allowances  for  the  sad  position  in  which 
my  sister  is  placed.  She  spoke  while  she  was 
smarting  under  the  insult  and  injustice  inflicted 
on  her  by  her  husband — and  she  was  not  herself 
when  she  said  those  rash  words.  May  I  hope 
that  they  will  be  considerately  and  generously 
forgiven  ?" 

"Most  assuredly,"  said  the  Count's  quiet 
voice,  behind  me.  He  had  stolen  on  us,  with 
his  noiseless  tread,  and  his  book  in  his  hand, 
from  the  library. 

"When  Lady  Glyde  said  those  hasty  words," 
he  went  on,  "she  did  me  an  injustice  which  I 
lament — and  forgive.  Let  us  never  return  to 
the  subject,  Miss  Halcombe ;  let  us  all  comfort- 
ably combine  to  forget  it,  from  this  moment." 

"You  are  very  kind,"  I  said;  "you  relieve 
me  inexpressibly — " 

I  tried  to  continue ;  but  his  eyes  were  on  me — 
his  deadly  smile,  that  hides  every  thing,  was  set, 
hard  and  unwavering,  on  his  broad,  smooth  face. 
My  distrust  of  his  unfathomable  falseness,  my 
sense  of  my  own  degradation  in  stooping  to  con- 
ciliate his  wife  and  himself,  so  disturbed  and 
confused  me,  that  the  next  words  failed  on  my 
lips,  and  I  stood  there  in  silence. 

"  I  beg  you  on  my  knees  to  say  no  more,  Miss 
Halcombe — I  am  truly  shocked  that  you  should 
have  thought  it  necessary  to  say  so  much." 
With  that  polite  speech  he  took  my  hand — oh, 
how  I  des])ise  myself!  oh,  how  little  comfort 
there  is,  even  in  knowing  that  I  submitted  to  it 
for  Laura's  sake! — he  took  my  hand  and  put  it 
to  his  poisonous  lips.  Never  did  I  know  all  my 
hoiTor  of  him  till  then.  That  innocent  famil- 
iarity turned  my  blood  as  if  it  had  been  the 
vilest  insult  that  a  man  could  ofter  me.  Yet  I 
hid  my  disgust  from  him — I  tried  to  smile — I, 
who  once  mercilessly  despised  deceit  in  other  wo- 
men, was  as  false  as  the  worst  of  them — as  false 
as  the  Jndas  whose  lips  had  touched  my  hand. 


I  could  not  have  maintained  my  degrading 
self-control — it  is  all  that  i-edeems  me  in  my 
own  estimation  to  know  that  I  could  not — if  he 
had  still  continued  to  keep  his  eyes  on  my  face. 
His  wife's  tigerish  jealousy  came  to  my  rescue, 
and  forced  his  attention  away  from  me,  the  mo- 
ment he  possessed  himself  of  my  hand.  Her 
cold  blue  eyes  caught  light;  her  dull  white 
cheeks  flushed  into  bright  color;  she  looked 
years  younger  than  her  age  in  an  instant. 

"  Count !"  she  said.  "  Your  foreign  forms  of 
politeness  are  not  understood  by  English  wo- 
men." 

"  Pardon  me,  my  angel !  The  best  and  dear- 
est English  woman  in  the  world  understands 
them."  With  those  words  he  dropped  my  hand 
and  quietly  raised  his  wife's  hand  to  his  lips  in 
place  of  it. 

I  ran  back  up  the  stairs  to  take  refuge  in  my 
own  room.  If  there  had  been  time  to  think, 
my  thoughts,  when  I  was  alone  again,  would 
have  caused  me  bitter  suffering.  But  there  was 
no  time  to  think.  Happily  for  the  preservation 
of  my  calmness  and  my  courage,  there  was  time 
for  nothing  but  action. 

The  letters  to  the  lawyer  and  to  Mr.  Fairlie 
were  still  to  be  written,  and  I  eat  down  at  once, 
without  a  moment's  hesitation,  to  devote  myself 
to  them.  There  was  no  multitude  of  resources 
to  perplex  me — there  was  absolutely  no  one  to 
depend  on,  in  the  first  instance,  but  myself.  Sir 
Percival  had  neither  friends  nor  relatives  in  the 
neighborhood  whose  intercession  I  could  attempt 
to  employ.  He  was  on  the  coldest  terms — in 
some  cases,  on  the  worst  terms — with  the  fami- 
lies of  his  own  rank  and  station  who  lived  near 
him.  We  two  women  had  neither  father  nor 
brother  to  come  to  the  house  and  take  our  jiarts. 
There  was  no  choice  but  to  write  those  two 
doixbtful  letters — or  to  put  Laura  in  the  wrong 
and  myself  in  the  wrong,  and  to  make  all  peace- 
able negotiation  in  the  future  impossible,  by 
secretly  escaping  from  Blackwater  Park.  No- 
thing but  the  most  imminent  personal  peril  could 
justify  our  taking  that  second  course.  The  let- 
ters must  be  tried  first ;  and  I  wrote  them. 

I  said  nothing  to  the  lawyer  about  Anne 
Catherick ;  because  (as  I  had  already  hinted  to 
Laura)  that  to]jic  was  connected  with  a  mystery 
which  we  could  not  yet  exjilain,  and  which  it 
would,  therefore,  be  useless  to  write  about  to  a 
professional  man.  I  left  my  correspondent  to 
attribute  Sir  Percival's  disgraceful  conduct,  if 
he  pleased,  to  fresh  disputes  about  money  mat- 
ters ;  and  simply  consulted  him  on  the  jiossibil- 
ity  of  taking  legal  proceedings  for  Laura's  pro- 
tection, in  the  event  of  her  husband's  refusal  to 
allow  her  to  leave  Blackwater  Park  for  a  time, 
and  return  with  me  to  Limmcridge.  I  referred 
him  to  Mr.  Fairlie  for  the  details  of  this  last  ar- 
rangement— I  assured  him  that  I  wrote  with 
Laura's  authority — and  I  ended  by  entreating 
him  to  act  in  her  name,  to  the  utmost  extent 
of  his  power,  and  with  the  least  possible  loss  of 
time. 

The  letter  to  Mr.  Fairlie  occupied  me  next. 
I  a]i]icalcd  to  him  on  the  terms  which  I  had 
mentioned  to  Laiu'a  as  the  nmst  likely  to  make 
him  bestir  himself;  I  inclosed  a  cojiy  of  my  let- 
ter to  the  lawyer,  to  show  him  how  serious  the 
case  was ;  and  I  represented  our  removal  to 
Limmeridgc    as  the    only   comiiromise    which 


THE  WO:\L\M  IX  WHITE. 


129 


'  ^■ 


F^'/- 


-!f^ 


HE    TOOK  BIT   HAXD   AND   PUT   IT   TO    HIS   POISONOUS    LIPS. 


asked, 
"But 


would  prevent  the  dancer  and  distress  of  Laura's 
jiresent  position  from  inevitably  aftecting  her 
uncle  as  well  as  herself,  at  no  very  distant  time. 

When  I  had  done,  and  had  sealed  and  direct- 
ed the  two  envelopes,  I  went  back  with  the  let- 
ters to  Laura's  room  to  show  her  that  they  were 
written. 

"Has  any  body  disturbed   you?"   I 
when  she  opened  the  door  to  me. 

"Nobody  has  knocked,"  she  replied. 
I  heard  some  one  in  the  outer  room." 

"  Was  it  a  man  or  a  woman  ?'' 

"A  woman.  I  heard  the  rustUng  of  her 
pown." 

"A  rustling  like  silk?" 

"Yes;  like  silk." 

Madame  Fosco  had  evidently  been  watching 
outside.  The  mischief  she  might  do  by  herself 
was  little  to  be  feared.  But  the  mischief  she 
might  do,  as  a  willing  instrument  in  her  hus- 
band's hands,  was  too  formidable  to  be  over- 
looked. 

"  What  became  of  the  nistling  of  the  gown 
when  you  no  longer  heard  it  in  the  ante-room  ?" 
I  inquired.  "  Did  you  hear  it  go  past  your  wall, 
along  the  passage?" 

"Yes.  I  kept  still,  and  listened,  and  just 
heard  it." 


"Which  way  did  it  go?" 

"Toward  your  room." 

I  considered  again.  The  sound  had  not  caught 
my  ears.  But  then  I  was  deeply  absorbed  in 
my  letters ;  and  I  write  with  a  heavy  hand  and 
a  quill  pen,  scraping  and  scratching  noisily  over 
the  paper.  It  was  more  likely  that  Madame 
Fosco  would  hear  the  scraping  of  my  pen  than 
that  I  should  hear  the  rustling  of  her  dress. 
Another  reason  (if  I  had  wanted  one)  for  not 
trusting  my  letters  to  the  post-bag  in  the  hall. 

Laura  saw  me  thinking.  "  iMore  difficulties  ?" 
she  said,  wearily  ;  "  more  difficulties  and  more 
dangers !" 

"  No  dangers,"  I  replied.  "  Some  little  diffi- 
culty, perhaps.  I  am  thinking  of  the  safest  way 
of  putting  my  two  letters  into  Fanny's  hands." 

"You  have  really  written  them,  then?  Oh, 
Marian,  run  no  risks — pray,  pray  run  no  risks!" 

"  No,  no — no  fear.  Let  me  see — what  o'clock 
is  it  now?" 

It  was  a  quarter  to  six.  There  would  be  time 
for  me  to  get  to  the  village  inn  and  to  come 
back  again  before  dinner.  If  I  waited  till  the 
evening  I  might  find  no  second  opportunity  of 
safely  leaving  the  house. 

"keep  the  key  turned  in  the  lock,  Laura." 
I  said,  ' '  and  don't  be  afraid  about  me.     If  you 


130 


THE  VrOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


hear  any  inquiries  made,  call  throii<;h  the  door, 
and  say  that  I  am  gone  out  for  a  walk." 

"When  shall  you  be  back?" 

"Before  dinner,  without  fail.  Courage,  my 
love!  By  this  time  to-morrow  you  will  have  a 
clear-headed,  trust-worthy  man  acting  for  your 
good.  Mr.  Gilmore's  partner  is  our  next  best 
friend  to  Mr.  Gilmore  himself. 

A  moment's  reflection,  as  soon  as  I  was  alone, 
convinced  me  that  I  had  better  not  appear  in 
my  walking-dress  until  I  had  first  discovered 
what  was  going  on  in  the  lower  part  of  the 
house.  I  had  not  ascertained  yet  whether  Sir 
Percival  was  in-doors  or  out. 

The  singing  of  the  canaries  in  the  library,  and 
the  smell  of  tobacco-smoke  that  came  through 
the  door,  which  was  not  closed,  told  me  at  once 
where  the  Count  was.  I  looked  over  my  shoul- 
der as  I  passed  the  door-way ;  and  saw,  to  my 
surprise,  that  he  was  exhibiting  the  docility  of 
the  birds,  in  his  most  engagingly  polite  mannei', 
to  the  housekeejier.  He  must  have  specially  in- 
vited her  to  see  them,  for  she  would  never  have 
thought  of  going  into  the  library  of  her  own  ac- 
cord. The  man's  slightest  actions  had  a  pur- 
pose of  some  kind  at  the  bottom  of  every  one  of 
them.     What  could  be  his  purpose  here? 

It  was  no  time- then  to  inquire  into  his  mo- 
tives. I  looked  about  for  Madame  Fosco  next, 
and  found  her  following  her  favorite  circle, 
round  and  round  the  fish-pond.  I  was  a  little 
doubtful  how  she  would  meet  me  after  the  out- 
break of  jealousy  of  which  I  had  been  the  cause 
so  short  a  time  since.  But  her  husband  had 
tamed  her  in  the  interval,  and  she  now  spoke  to 
me  with  the  same  civility  as  usual.  My  only 
object  in  addressing  myself  to  her  was  to  ascer- 
tain if  she  knew  what  had  become  of  Sir  Perci- 
val. I  contrived  to  refer  to  him  indirectly  ;  and, 
after  a  little  fencing  on  either  side,  she  at  last 
mentioned  that  he  had  gone  out. 

"  Which  of  the  horses  has  he  taken  ?"  I  asked, 
carelessly. 

"None  of  them,"  she  replied.  "lie  went 
away,  two  hours  since,  on  foot.  As  I  understood 
it,  his  object  was  to  make  fresh  inquiries  about 
the  woman  named  Anne  Catherick.  He  ap- 
pears to  be  unreasonably  anxious  about  tracing 
her.  Do  you  happen  to  know  if  she  is  danger- 
ously mad.  Miss  Halcombe?" 

"  I  do  not.  Countess." 

"  Are  you  going  in  ?" 

"Yes,  I  think  so.  I  suppose  it  will  soon  be 
time  to  dress  for  dinner." 

We  entered  the  house  together.  Madame 
Fosco  strolled  into  th6  library  and  closed  the 
door.  I  went  at  once  to  fetch  my  hat  and 
shawl.  Every  moment  was  of  importance,  if  I 
was  to  get  to  Fanny  at  the  inn  and  be  back  be- 
fore dinner. 

When  I  crossed  the  hall  again  no  one  was 
there;  and  the  singing  of  the  birds  in  the  libra- 
)•}•  had  ceased.  I  could  not  stop  to  make  any 
fresh  investigations.  I  could  only  assure  my- 
self that  the  way  was  clear,  and  then  leave  the 
house  with  the  two  letters  safe  in  my  pocket. 

On  my  way  to  the  village  I  prepared  myself 
for  the  ])ossil)ility  of  meeting  Sir  Percival.  As 
long  as  I  had  him  to  deal  with  alone,  I  felt  cer- 
tain of  not  losing  my  presence  of  mind.  Any 
woman  who  is  sure  of  her  own  wits  is  a  match, 
at  any  time,  for  a  man  who  is  not  stn-e  of  liis 


own  temper.  I  had  no  such  fear  of  Sir  Percival 
as  I  had  of  the  Count.  Instead  of  fluttering, 
it  had  composed  me,  to  hear  of  the  errand  on 
which  he  had  gone  out.  While  the  tracing  of 
Anne  Catherick  was  the  great  anxiety  that  oc- 
cupied him,  Laura  and  I  might  hope  for  some 
cessation  of  any  active  persecution  at  his  hands. 
For  our  sakes  now,  as  well  as  for  hers,  I  hoped 
and  prayed  fervently  that  she  might  still  escape 
him. 

I  walked  on  as  briskly  as  the  heat  would  let 
me,  till  I  reached  the  cioss-road  which  led  to 
the  village ;  looking  back  from  time  to  time  to 
make  sure  that  I  was  not  followed  by  any  one. 
Nothing  was  behind  me,  all  the  way,  but  an 
empty  country  wagon.  The  noise  made  by  the 
lumbering  wheels  annoyed  me;  and  when  I 
found  that  the  wagon  took  the  road  to  the  vil- 
lage as  well  as  myself,  I  stopped  to  let  it  go  by 
and  pass  out  of  hearing.  As  I  looked  toward  it 
more  attentively  than  before,  I  thought  I  detect- 
ed, at  intervals,  the  feet  of  a  man  walking  close 
behind  it,  the  carter  being  in  front,  by  tlie  side 
of  his  horses.  The  part  of  the  cross-road  which 
I  had  just  passed  over  was  so  narrow  that  the 
wagon  coming  after  me  brushed  the  trees  and 
thickets  on  either  side;  and  I  had  to  Avait  un- 
til it  went  by  before  I  could  test  the  correctness 
of  my  impression.  Apparently  that  impression 
was  wrong,  for  when  the  wagon  had  passed  me 
the  road  behind  it  was  quite  clear. 

I  reached  the  inn  without  meeting  Sir  Per- 
cival, and  without  noticing  any  thing  more,  and 
was  glad  to  find  that  the  landlady  had  received 
Fanny  with  all  possible  kindness.  The  girl  had 
a  little  parlor  to  sit  in,  away  from  the  noise  of 
the  tap-room,  and  a  clean  bedchamber  at  the 
top  of  the  house.  She  began  crying  again  at 
the  sight  of  me  ;  and  said,  poor  soul,  truly 
enough,  that  it  was  dreadful  to  feel  herself 
turned  out  into  the  world  as  if  she  had  com- 
mitted some  unpardonable  fault,  when  no  blame 
could  be  laid  at  her  door  by  any  body — not  even 
by  her  master  who  had  sent  her  away. 

"Try  to  make  the  best  of  it,  Fanny,"  I  said. 
"Your  mistress  and  I  will  stand  your  friends, 
and  will  take  care  that  your  character  shall  not 
suffer.  Now,  listen  to  me.  I  have  very  little 
time  to  spare,  and  I  am  going  to  put  a  great 
trust  in  your  hands.  I  wish  you  to  take  care  of 
these  two  letters.  The  one  with  the  stamp  on 
it  you  are  to  put  into  the  post,  when  you  reach 
London,  to-morrow.  The  other,  directed  to  Mr. 
Fairlie,  you  are  to  deliver  to  him  yourself  as 
soon  as  j'ou  get  home.  Keep  both  the  lettere 
about  you,  and  give  them  up  to  no  one.  They 
are  of  the  last  importance  to  your  mistress's  in- 
terests." 

Fanny  put  the  letters  into  the  bosom  of  her 
dress.  "There  they  shall  sto]),  miss,"  she  said, 
"  till  I  have  done  what  you  tell  me." 

"Mind  you  are  at  the  station  in  good  time 
to-morrow  morning,"  I  continued.  "  And  when 
you  see  the  housekeeper  at  Limmeridge,  give 
her  my  compliments,  and  say  that  you  are  in 
my  service  until  Lady  Clyde  is  able  to  take  you 
back.  We  may  meet  again  sooner  than  you 
think.  So  keej)  a  good  heart,  and  don't  miss 
the  seven  o'clock  train." 

"Thank  you.  Miss,  tiiank  you  kindly.  It  gives 
one  courage  to  hear  your  voice  again.  Please 
to  offer  my  duty  to  my  lady,  and  say  I  left  all  tlie 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


131 


things  as  tidy  as  I  could  in  the  time.  Oli,  dear ! 
dear !  wlio  will  dress  her  for  dinner  to-day  ?  It 
really  breaks  my  heart,  Miss,  to  think  of  it." 

When  I  got  back  to  the  house  I  had  only  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  to  spare  to  put  myself  in  or- 
der for  dinner,  and  to  say  two  words  to  Laura 
before  I  went  down  stairs. 

"  The  letters  are  in  Fanny's  hands,"  I  whis- 
pered to  her,  at  the  door.  "Do  yon  mean  to 
join  us  at  dinner  ?" 

"Oh,  no,  no — not  for  the  world !" 

"Has  any  thing  happened  ?  Has  any  one  dis- 
turbed you  ?" 

"Yes — just  now — Sir  Percival — " 

"Did  he  come  in  ?" 

"No;  he  frightened  me  by  a  thump  on  the 
door,  outside.  I  said,  'Who's  there?'  'You 
know,'  he  answered.  'Will  yon  alter  your 
mind,  and  tell  me  the  rest  ?  You  shall !  Sooner 
or  later  I'll  wring  it  out  of  you.  You  know 
where  Anne  Catherick  is  at  this  moment !'  '  In- 
deed, indeed,'  I  said,  'I  don't.'  'You  do!'  he 
called  back.  '  I'll  crush  your  obstinacy — mind 
that ! — I'll  wring  it  out  of  you !'  He  went  away 
with  those  words — went  away,  Marian,  hardly 
five  minutes  ago." 

He  had  not  found  her.  We  were  safe  for 
that  night — he  had  not  found  her  yet. 

"  You  are  going  down  stairs,  Marian  ?  Come 
up  again  in  the  evening." 

"  Yes,  yes.  Don't  be  uneasy,  if  I  am  a  little 
late — I  must  be  careful  not  to  give  offense  by 
leaving  them  too  soon." 

The  dinner-bell  rang,  and  I  hastened  away. 

Sir  Percival  took  Madame  Fosco  into  the 
dining-room,  and  the  Count  gave  me  his  arm. 
He  was  hot  and  flushed,  and  was  not  dress- 
ed with  his  customary  care  and  com])leteness. 
Had  he,  too,  been  out  before  dinner,  and  been 
late  in  getting  back  ?  or  was  he  only  suffering 
from  the  heat  a  little  more  severely  tlian  usual  ? 

However  this  might  be,  he  was  unquestion- 
ably troubled  by  some  secret  annoyance  or  anx- 
iety, which,  with  all  his  powers  of  deception,  he 
was  not  able  entirely  to  conceal.  Through  the 
whole  of  dinner  he  was  almost  as  silent  as  Sir 
Percival  himself;  and  he,  every  now  and  then, 
looked  at  his  wife  with  an  expression  of  furtive 
uneasiness,  which  was  quite  new  in  my  experi- 
ence of  him.  The  one  social  obligation  which 
he  seemed  to  be  self-possessed  enough  to  per- 
form as  carefully  as  ever  was  the  obligation 
of  being  persistently  civil  and  attentive  to  me. 
What  vile  object  he  has  in  view  I  can  not  still 
discover ;  but,  be  the  design  what  it  may,  inva- 
riable politeness  toward  myself,  invariable  hu- 
mility toward  Laura,  and  invariable  suppression 
(at  any  cost)  of  Sir  Percival's  clumsy  violence, 
have  been  the  means  he  has  resolutely  and  im- 
penetrably used  to  get  to  his  end,  ever  since  he 
set  foot  in  this  house.  I  suspected  it  when  he 
first  interfered  in  our  favor,  on  the  day  when 
the  deed  was  produced  in  the  library,  and  I  feel 
certain  of  it  now. 

When  Madame  Fosco  and  I  rose  to  leave  the 
table,  the  Count  rose  also  to  accompany  us  back 
to  the  drawing-room. 

"What  are  you  going  away  for?"  asked  Sir 
Percival — "  I  mean  you,  Fosco." 

"  I  am  going  away  because  I  have  had  din- 
ner enough,  and  wine  enough,"  answered  the 


Count.  "  Be  so  kind,  Percival,  as  to  make  al- 
lowances for  my  foreign  habit  of  going  out  with 
the  ladies,  as  well  as  coming  in  with  them." 

"Nonsense!  Another  glass  of  claret  won't 
hurt  you.  Sit  down  again  like  an  Englishman. 
I  want  half  an  hour's  quiet  talk  with  you  over 
our  wine." 

"A  quiet  talk,  Percival,  with  all  my  heart, 
but  not  now,  and  not  over  the  wine.  Later  in 
the  evening,  if  you  please — later  in  the  even- 
ing." 

"  Civil !"  said  Sir  Percival,  savagely.  "  Civ- 
il behavior,  upon  my  soul,  to  a  man  in  his  own 
house !" 

I  had  more  than  once  seen  him  look  at  tlie 
Count  uneasily  during  dinner-time,  and  had  ob- 
served that  the  Count  carefully  abstained  from 
looking  at  him  in  return.  This  circumstance, 
coupled  with  the  host's  anxiety  for  a  little  quiet 
talk  over  the  wine,  and  the  guest's  obstinate 
resolution  not  to  sit  down  again  at  the  table, 
revived  in  my  memory  the  request  which  Sir 
Percival  had  vainly  addressed  to  his  friend, 
earlier  in  the  day,  to  come  out  of  the  library 
and  speak  to  him.  The  Count  had  deferred 
granting  that  private  interview  when  it  was 
first  asked  for  in  the  afternoon,  and  had  again 
deferred  granting  it  when  it  was  a  second  time 
asked  for  at  the  dinner-table.  Whatever  the 
coming  subject  of  discussion  between  them 
might  be,  it  was  clearly  an  important  subject  in 
Sir  Percival's  estimation — and  perhaps  (judg- 
ing from  his  evident  i-eluctance  to  approach  it) 
a  dangerous  subject  as  well,  in  the  estimation 
of  the  Count. 

These  considerations  occurred  to  me  while 
we  were  passing  from  the  dining-room  to  the 
drawing-room.  Sir  Percival's  angry  comment- 
ary on  his  friend's  desertion  of  him  had  not 
produced  the  slightest  effect.  The  Count  ob- 
stinately accompanied  us  to  the  tea-table — wait- 
ed a  minute  or  two  in  the  room — then  went  out 
into  the  hall,  and  returned  with  the  post-bag  in 
his  hands.  It  was  then  eight  o'clock — the  hour 
at  which  the  letters  were  always  dispatched 
from  Blackwater  Park. 

"  Have  you  any  letter  for  the  post,  Miss  Hal- 
combe?"  he  asked,  ajiproaching  me  with  the  bag. 

I  saw  Madame  Fosco,  who  was  making  the 
tea,  pause,  with  the  sugar-tongs  in  her  hand,  to 
listen  for  ray  answer. 

"  No,  Count,  thank  you.    No  letters  to-day." 

He  gave  the  bag  to  the  servant,  who  was  then 
in  the  room ;  sat  down  at  the  piano,  and  play- 
ed the  air  of  the  lively  Neapolitan  street-song, 
"  La  mia  Carolina,"  twice  over.  His  wife,  who 
was  usually  the  most  deliberate  of  women  in  all 
her  movements,  made  the  tea  as  quickly  as  I 
could  have  made  it  myself — finished  her  own 
cup  in  two  minutes — and  quietly  glided  out  of 
the  room. 

I  rose  to  follow  her  example — partly  because 
I  suspected  her  of  attempting  some  treachery 
up  stairs  with  Laura ;  partly  because  I  was  re- 
solved not  to  remain  alone  in  the  same  room 
with  her  husband. 

Before  I  could  get  to  the  door  the  Count 
stopped  me  by  a  request  for  a  cup  of  tea.  I 
gave  him  the  cup  of  tea,  and  tried  a  second 
time  to  get  away.  He  stopped  me  again — this 
time  by  going  back  t»  the  piano,  and  suddenly 
appealing  to  me  on  a  musical  question  in  which 


132 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


41:/  m 


he  declared  that  the  honor  of  his  country  was 
concerned. 

I  vainly  pleaded  my  own  total  ip;norance  of 
music,  and  total  want  of  taste  in  that  direction. 
He  only  appealed  to  me  again  with  a  vehemence 
which  set  all  further  protest  on  my  part  at  de- 
fiance. "The  English  and  the  Germans  (he 
indignantly  declared)  were  always  reviling  the 
Italians  for  their  inability  to  cultivate  the  high- 
er kinds  of  music.  We  were  perpetually  talk- 
ing of  our  Oratoi-ios,  and  they  were  perpetually 
talking  of  their  Symphonies.  Did  we  forget 
and  did  they  forget  his  immortal  friend  and 
countryman,  Rossini  ?  What  was  '  Moses  in 
Egypt'  but  a  sublime  oratorio,  which  was  acted 
on  the  stage,  instead  of  being  coldly  sung  in  a 
concert-room  ?  What  was  the  overture  to  Guil- 
laume  Tell  but  a  symphony  under  another 
name?  Had  I  heard 'Moses  in  Egypt?'  Would 
I  listen  to  this,  and  this,  and  this,  and  say  if 
any  thing  more  sublimely  sacred  and  grand  had 
ever  been  composed  by  mortal  man?"  —  And 
without  waiting  for  a  word  of  assent  or  dissent 
on  my  part,  looking  me  hard  in  the  face  all  the 
time,  he  began  thundering  on  the  piano,  and 
singing  to  it  with  loud  and  lofty  enthusiasm ; 
only  interrupting  himself,  at  intervals,  to  an- 
nounce to  me  fiercely  the  titles  of  the  difl'erent 
pieces  of  music :  "  Chorus  of  Egyptians,  in  the 
Plague  of  Darkness,  Miss  Ilalcombe!" — "  Re- 
citativo  of  Moses,  with  the  tables  of  the  Law." 
— "Prayer  of  Israelites,  at  the  passage  of  the 
Red  Sea.    Aha!  aha  I    Is  that  sacred?    Is  that 


sublime?"  The  piano  trembled  under  his  pow- 
eiful  hands ;  and  the  tea-cups  on  the  table  rat- 
tled as  his  big  bass  voice  thundered  out  the 
notes,  and  his  heavy  foot  beat  time  on  the  floor. 

Tliere  was  something  horrible,  something 
fierce  and  devilish,  in  the  outburst  of  his  delight 
at  his  own  singing  and  playing,  and  in  the  tri- 
umph with  which  he  watched  its  effect  upon  me, 
as  I  shrank  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  door.  I 
was  released  at  last,  not  by  my  own  eft'orts,  but 
by  Sir  Percival's  interi)osition.  He  opened  the 
dining-room  door  and  called  out  angrily  to 
know  what  "that  infernal  noise"  meant.  The 
Count  instantly  got  up  from  the  piano.  "Ah! 
if  Percival  is  coming,"  he  said,  "harmony  and 
melody  are  both  at  an  end.  The  Muse  of  Mu- 
sic, Miss  Halcombe,  deserts  us  in  dismay ;  and 
I,  the  fat  old  minstrel,  exhale  the  rest  of  my 
enthusiasm  in  the  open  air!"  He  stalked  out 
into  the  veranda,  put  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
and  resumed  the  "recitativo  of  Moses,"  sotto 
voce,  in  the  garden.  — 

I  heard  Sir  Percival  call  after  him  from  the 
dining-room  window.  But  he  took  no  notice : 
he  seemed  determined  not  to  hear.  That  long- 
deferred  quiet  talk  between  them  was  still  to  be 
put  oft",  was  still  to  wait  for  the  Count's  absolute 
will  and  pleasure. 

He  had  detained  me  in  the  drawing-room 
nearly  half  an  hour  from  the  time  when  his  wife 
left  us.  Where  had  she  been,  and  what  had  she 
been  doing  in  that  interval? 

I  went  up  stairs  to  ascertain,  but  I  made  no 
discoveries ;  and  when  I  questioned  Laura  I 
found  that  she  had  not  heard  any  thing.  No- 
body had  disturbed  her — no  faint  rustling  of  the 
silk  dress  had  been  audible,  either  in  the  ante- 
room or  in  the  passage. 

It  was  then  twenty  minutes  to  nine.  After 
going  to  my  room  to  get  my  journal  I  returned 
and  sat  with  Laura;  sometimes  writing,  some- 
times stopping  to  talk  with  her.  Nobody  came 
near  us,  and  nothing  happened.  We  remained 
together  till  ten  o'clock.  I  then  rose,  said  my 
last  cheering  words,  and  wished  her  good-night. 
She  locked  her  door  again,  after  we  had  arranged 
that  I  should  come  in  and  see  her  the  first  thing 
in  the  morning. 

I  had  more  to  do  to  my  diary  before  going  to 
bed  myself;  and  as  I  went  down  again  to  the 
drawing-room,  for  the  last  time  that  weary  day, 
I  resolved  merely  to  show  myself  there,  to  make 
my  excuses,  and  then  to  retire  an  hour  earlier 
than  usual  for  the  night. 

Sir  Percival  and  the  Count  and  his  wife  were 
sitting  together.  Sir  Percival  was  yawning  in 
an  easy-chair,  the  Count  was  reading,  Madame 
Fosco  was  fanning  herself.  Strange  to  say,  her 
face  was  flushed  now.  She  who  never  suffered 
from  the  heat  was  most  undoubtedly  suffering 
from  it  to-night. 

"  I  am  afraid.  Countess,  you  are  not  quite  so 
well  as  usual  ?"  I  said. 

"The  very  remark  I  was  about  to  make  to 
yon,"  she  replied.  "You  arc  looking  pale,  my 
dear." 

My  dear!  It  was  the  first  time  she  had  ever 
addressed  me  with  tiuit  faniiHarity !  Tliere  was 
an  insolent  smile,  too,  on  her  face  when  she 
said  the  words. 

"I  am  suffering  from  one  of  my  bad  head- 
aches," I  answered,  coldly. 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


133 


"  Ah,  indeed  ?  Want  of  exercise,  I  suppose  ? 
A  walk  before  dinner  would  have  been  just  the 
thing  for  you."  She  referred  to  the  "walk" 
with  a  strange  em]3hasis.  Had  slie  seen  me  go 
out  ?  No  matter  if  she  had.  The  letters  were 
safe  now  in  Fanny's  hands. 

"Come  and  have  a  smoke,  Fosco,"  said  Sir 
Percival,  rising,  with  another  uneasy  look  at  his 
friend. 

"  With  pleasure,  Percival,  when  the  ladies 
have  gone  to  bed,"  replied  the  Count. 

"  Excuse  me,  Countess,  if  I  set  you  the  ex- 
ample of  retiring,"  I  said.  "  The  only  remedy 
for  such  a  headache  as  mine  is  going  to  bed." 

I  took  my  leave.  There  was  the  same  inso- 
lent smile  on  the  woman's  face  when  I  shook 
hands  with  her.  Sir  Percival  paid  no  attention 
to  me.  He  was  looking  impatiently  at  Madame 
Fosco,  who  showed  no  signs  of  leaving  the  room 
with  me.  The  Count  smiled  to  himself  behind 
his  book.  There  was  yet  another  delay  to  that 
(luiet  talk  with  Sir  Percival — and  the  Countess 
was  the  impediment  this  time. 

Once  safely  shut  into  my  own  room  I  opened 
these  pages,  and  prepared  to  go  on  with  that 
part  of  the  day's  record  which  was  still  left  to 
write. 

For  ten  minutes  or  more  I  sat  idle,  with  the 
pen  in  my  hand,  thinking  over  the  events  of  the 
last  twelve  hours.  When  I  at  last  addressed 
myself  to  my  task  I  found  a  difficulty  in  pro- 
ceeding with  it  which  I  had  7iever  experienced 
before.  In  spite  of  my  efforts  to  fix  mj'  thoughts 
on  the  matter  in  hand  they  wandered  away, 
with  the  strangest  persistency,  in  the  one  direc- 
tion of  Sir  Percival  and  the  Count ;  and  all  the 
interest  which  I  tried  to  concentrate  on  my  jour- 
nal centred,  instead,  on  that  private  interview 
between  them  which  had  been  put  oti'all  through 
the  day,  and  whicli  was  now  to  take  place  in  the 
silence  and  solitude  of  the  night. 

In  this  perverse  state  of  my  mind  the  recol- 
lection of  what  had  passed  since  the  morning 
would  not  come  back  to  me,  and  there  was  no 
resource  but  to  close  my  journal  and  to  get  away 
from  it  for  a  little  while. 

I  opened  the  door  which  led  from  my  bed- 
room into  my  sitting-room,  and  having  passed 
through  pulled  it  to  again  to  prevent  any  acci- 
dent, in  case  of  draught,  with  the  candle  left  on 
the  dressing-table.  My  sitting-room  window  was 
wide  open,  and  I  leaned  out,  listlessly,  to  look 
at  the  night. 

It  was  dark  and  quiet.  Neither  moon  nor 
stars  were  visible.  There  was  a  smell  like  rain 
in  the  still,  heavy  air,  and  I  put  my  hand  out 
of  window.  No.  The  rain  was  only  threaten- 
ing; it  had  not  come  yet. 

I  remained  leaning  on  the  window-sill  for 
nearly  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  looking  out  absent- 
ly into  the  black  darkness,  and  jiearing  nothing 
except,  now  and  then,  the  voices  of  the  servants, 
or  the  distant  sound  of  a  closing  door,  in  the 
lower  part  of  the  house. 

Just  as  I  was  turning  away  wearily  from  the 
window  to  go  back  to  the  bedroom,  and  make 
a  second  attempt  to  complete  the  unfinished 
entry  in  my  journal,  I  smelled  the  odor  of  to- 
bacco-smoke stealing  toward  me  on  the  heavy 
night  air.  The  next  moment  I  saw  a  tiny  red 
spark  advancing  from  the  farther  end  of  the 


house  in  the  pitch  darkness.  I  heard  no  foot- 
steps, and  I  could  see  nothing  but  the  spark. 
It  traveled  along  in  the  night,  passed  the  win- 
dow at  which  I  was  standing,  and  stopped  op- 
posite my  bedroom,  inside  which  I  had  left  the 
light  burning  on  the  dressing-table. 

The  spark  remained  stationary  for  a  moment, 
then  moved  back  again  in  the  direction  from 
which  it  had  advanced.  As  I  followed  its  prog- 
ress I  saw  a  second  red  sjiark,  larger  than  the 
first,  approaching  from  the  distance.  The  two 
met  together  in  the  darkness.  Remembering 
who  smoked  cigarettes  and  who  smoked  cigars, 
I  inferred  immediately  that  the  Count  had 
come  out  first  to  look  and  listen  under  my  win- 
dow, and  that  Sir  Percival  had  afterward  joined 
him.  They  must  both  have  been  walking  on 
the  lawn — or  I  should  certainly  have  heard  Sir 
Percival's  heavy  footfall,  though  the  Count's 
soft  step  might  have  escaped  me,  even  on  the 
gravel  walk. 

I  waited  quietly  at  the  window,  certain  that 
they  could  neither  of  them  see  me  in  the  dark- 
ness of  the  room. 

"  What's  the  matter  ?"  I  heard  Sir  Percival 
say,  in  a  low  voice.  "Why  don't  you  come  in 
and  sit  down  ?" 

"I  want  to  see  the  light  out  of  that  window," 
replied  the  Count,  softly. 

"What  harm  does  the  light  do?" 

"  It  shows  she  is  not  in  bed  yet.  She  is  sharp 
enough  to  suspect  something,  and  bold  enough 
to  come  down  stairs  and  listen,  if  she  can  get 
the  chance.     Patience,  Percival — jiatience!" 

"  Humbug !  You're  always  talking  of  pa- 
tience." 

"I  shall  talk  of  something  else  presently. 
My  good  friend,  you  are  on  the  edge  of  your 
domestic  precipice ;  and  if  I  let  you  give  the 
women  one  other  chance,  on  my  sacred  word 
of  honor  they  will  push  you  over  it !" 

"What  the  devil  do  you  mean?" 

"  We  will  come  to  our  explanations,  Percival, 
when  the  light  is  out  of  that  window,  and  when 
I  have  had  one  little  look  at  the  rooms  on  each 
side  of  the  library,  and  a  peep  at  the  staircase  as 
well." 

They  slowly  moved  away ;  and  the  rest  of 
the  conversation  between  them  (which  had  been 
conducted  throughout  in  the  same  low  tones) 
ceased  to  be  audible.  It  was  no  matter.  I  had 
heard  enough  to  determine  me  on  justifying  the 
Count's  opinion  of  my  sharpness  and  my  cour- 
age. Before  the  red  sparks  were  out  of  sight 
in  the  darkness  I  had  made  up  my  mind  that 
there  should  be  a  listener  when  those  two  men 
sat  down  to  their  talk,  and  that  the  listener,  in 
spite  of  all  the  Count's  precautions  to  the  con- 
trary, should  be  myself.  I  wanted  but  one  mo- 
tive to  sanction  the  act  to  my  own  conscience, 
and  to  give  me  courage  enough  for  performing 
it ;  and  that  motive  I  had.  Laura's  honor,  Lau- 
ra's happiness,  Laura's  life  itself,  might  depend 
on  my  quick  ears  and  my  faithful  memory  to- 
night. 

I  had  heard  the  Count  say  that  he  meant  to 
examine  the  rooms  on  each  side  of  the  library, 
and  the  staircase  as  well,  before  he  entered  on 
any  explanations  with  Sir  Percival.  This  ex- 
pression of  his  intentions  was  necessarily  suffi- 
cient to  inform  me  that  the  library  was  the  room 
in   which  he   proposed  that   the    conversation 


134 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


should  take  place.  The  one  moment  of  time  i 
which  was  long  enough  to  bring  me  to  that  con- 
clusion was  also  the  moment  which  showed  me 
a  means  of  baffling  his  precautions — or,  in  other 
words,  of  hearing  what  he  and  Sir  Percival  said 
to  each  other,  without  the  risk  of  descending  at 
all  into  the  lower  regions  of  the  house.  j 

In  speaking  of  the  rooms  on  the  ground-floor 
I  have  mentioned  incidentally  the  veranda  out-  j 
side  them,  on  which  they  all  opened  by  means 
of  French  windows,  extending  from  the  cornice 
to  the  floor.  The  top  of  this  veranda  was  flat, 
the  rain-water  being  carried  off"  from  it  by  ])ipes 
into  tanks  which  helped  to  supply  the  house. 
On  the  narrow  leaden  roof,  which  ran  along 
past  the  bedrooms,  and  which  was  rather  less,  I 
.  sliould  think,  than  three  feet  below  the  sills  of 
the  windows,  a  row  of  flower-pots  was  ranged, 
with  wide  intervals  between  each  pot ;  the  whole 
being  protected  fi-om  falling,  in  high  winds,  by 
an  ornamental  iron  railing  along  the  edge  of  the 
roof. 

The  plan  which  had  now  occurred  to  me  was 
to  get  out,  at  my  sitting-room  window,  on  to 
this  roof,  to  creep  along  noiselessly,  till  I  reach- 
ed that  part  of  it  which  was  immediately  over 
the  library  window,  and  to  crouch  down  between 
the  flower-pots,  with  my  ear  against  the  outer 
railing.  If  Sir  Percival  and  the  Count  sat  and 
smoked  to-night,  as  I  had  seen  them  sitting  and 
smoking  many  nights  before,  with  their  chairs 
close  at  the  open  window,  and  their  feet  stretch- 
ed on  the  zinc  garden-seats  which  were  placed 
under  the  veranda,  every  word  they  said  to  each 
other  above  a  whisper  (and  no  long  conversation, 
as  we  all  know  by  experience,  can  be  carried  on 
in  a  whisper)  must  inevitably  reach  my  ears.  If, 
on  the  other  hand,  they  chose  to-night  to  sit  far 
Iiack  inside  the  room,  then  the  chances  were  that 
I  should  hear  little  or  nothing ;  and  in  that  case 
I  must  run  the  far  more  serious  risk  of  trying  to 
outwit  them  down  stairs. 

Strongly  as  I  was  fortified  in  my  resolution 
by  the  desperate  nature  of  our  situation,  I 
hoped  most  fervently  that  I  might  escape  this 
last  emergency.  My  courage  was  only  a  wo- 
man's courage  after  all ;  and  it  was  very  near 
to  failing  me  when  I  thought  of  trusting  myself 
on  the  ground-floor,  at  the  dead  of  night,  with- 
in reach  of  Sir  Percival  and  the  Count. 

I  went  softly  back  to  my  bedroom,  to  try  the 
safer  experiment  of  tlie  veranda  roof  first. 

A  complete  change  in  my  dress  was  imjiera- 
tively  necessary,  for  many  reasons.  I  took  ofi:' 
my  silk  gown,  to  begin  with,  because  the  slight- 
est noise  from  it,  on  that  still  night,  might  have 
betrayed  me.  I  next  removed  the  white  and 
cumbersome  parts  of  my  underclothing,  and  re-* 
placed  tjiem  by  a  petticoat  of  dark  flannel. 
Over  this  I  put  my  black  traveling  cloak,  and 
pulled  the  hood  on  to  my  head.  In  my  ordi- 
nary evening  costume  I  took  up  the  room  of 
three  men  at  least.  In  my  present  dress,  when 
it  was  held  close  about  me,  no  man  could  have 
passed  through  the  narrowest  s])aces  more  easi- 
ly than  I.  The  little  breadtli  left  on  the  roof 
of  the  veranda,  between  tlie  flower-jiots  on  one 
side  and  the  wall  and  windows  of  the  house 
on  the  other,  made  this  a  serious  consideration. 
If  I  knocked  any  thing  down,  if  I  made  the  least 
noise,  who  could  say  what  the  consequences 
might  be  ? 


I  only  waited  to  put  the  matches  near  the 
candle  before  I  extinguished  it,  and  groped  mv 
way  back  into  the  sitting-room.  I  locked  that 
door,  as  I  had  locked  my  bedroom-door — then 
quietly  got  out  of  the  window,  and  cautiously 
set  my  feet  on  the  leaden  roof  of  the  veranda. 
My  two  rooms  were  at  the  inner  extremity  of 
the  new  wing  of  the  house,  in  which  we  all 
lived,  and  I  had  five  windows  to  pass  before  I 
could  reach  the  position  it  was  necessary  to 
take  up  immediately  over  the  library.  The 
first  window  belonged  to  a  spare  room,  which 
was  empty.  The  second  and  third  windows 
belonged  to  Laura's  room.  The  fourth  window 
belonged  to  Sir  Percival's  room.  The  fifth  be- 
longed to  the  Countess's  room.  The  others,  by 
which  it  was  not  necessary  for  me  to  pass,  were 
the  windows  of  the  Count's  dressing-room,  of 
the  bath-room,  and  of  the  second  empty  spare 
room. 

No  sound  reached  my  ears — the  black,  blind- 
ing darkness  of  the  night  Mas  all  round  me  when 
I  first  stood  on  the  veranda,  except  at  that  part 
of  it  which  Madame  Fosco's  window  overlook- 
ed. There,  at  the  very  place  above  the  library 
to  which  my  course  was  directed — there  I  saw 
a  gleam  of  light !  The  Countess  was  not  yet  in 
bed. 

It  was  too  late  to  drawback ;  it  was  no  time 
to  wait.  I  determined  to  go  on  at  all  hazards, 
and  trust  for  security  to  my  own  caution  and  to 
the  darkness  of  the  night.  "For  Laura's  sake !" 
I  thought  to  myself,  as  I  took  the  first  stej)  for- 
ward on  the  roof,  with  one  hand  holding  my 
cloak  close  round  me,  and  the  other  groping 
against  the  wall  of  the  house.  It  was  better  to 
brush  close  by  the  wall  than  to  risk  striking  my 
feet  against  the  flower-pots  within  a  few  inches 
of  me  on  the  other  side. 

I  passed  the  dark  Mindow  of  the  spare  room, 
trying  the  leaden  roof  at  each  step  with  my  foot, 
before  I  risked  resting  my  weight  on  it.  I  pass- 
ed the  dark  windows  of  Laura's  room  ("God 
bless  her  and  keep  her  to-night!").  I  passed 
the  dark  window  of  Sir  Percival's  room.  Then 
I  waited  a  moment,  knelt  down,  Avith  my  hands 
to  supj)ort  me,  and  so  crejjt  to  my  jiosition,  un- 
der the  protection  of  the  low  wall  between  the 
bottom  of  the  lighted  window  and  the  veranda 
roof. 

When  I  ventured  to  look  up  at  the  window 
itself  I  found  that  the  top  of  it  only  was  open, 
and  that  the  blind  inside  was  drawn  down. 
While  I  was  looking  I  saw  the  shadow  of  Ma- 
dame Fosco  pass  across  the  white  field  of  the 
blind,  then  pass  slowly  back  again.  Thus  far 
she  could  not  have  heard  me,  or  the  shadow 
would  snreh'  have  sto))]ied  at  the  blind,  even  if 
slie  had  wanted  courage  enough  to  open  the 
window  and  look  out. 

I  placed  myself  sideways  against  the  railing 
of  the  veranda,  first  ascertaining,  by  touching 
them,  the  position  of  the  flower-jiots  on  either 
side  of  me.  There  was  room  enougii  for  me  to 
sit  between  them,  and  no  more.  The  sweet- 
scented  leaves  of  the  flower  on  my  left  hand 
just  brushed  my  check  as  I  lightly  rested  my 
head  against  tlie  railing. 

The  first  sounds  that  reached  me  from  below 
were  caused  by  the  o])ening  or  closing  (most 
probably  the  latter)  of  three  doors  in  succession 
— the  doors,  no  doubt,  leading  into  the   hall, 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WrilTE. 


135 


km 


'  THE    STRANGENESS    AND    PERIL   OF    MY    SITUATION,      ETC. 


and  into  the  rooms  on  each  side  of  the  lihrarv, 
which  the  Count  had  pledged  himself  to  exam- 
ine. The  first  ohject  that  I  saw  was  the  red 
spark  ar!;ain  travelinu;  out  into  the  night,  from 
under  the  veranda,  moving  away  toward  my  win- 
dow, waiting  a  moment,  and  then  returning  to 
the  place  from  which  it  had  set  out. 

"The  devil  take  your  restlessness  !  When  do 
you  mean  to  sit  down  ?"  growled  Sir  Percival's 
voice  beneath  me. 

"Ouf!  how  hot  it  is!"  said  the  Count,  sigh- 
ing and  puffing  wearil3^ 

His  exclamation  was  followed  by  the  scraping 
of  the  garden  chairs  on  the  tiled  pavement  un- 
der the  veranda — the  welcome  sound  which  told 
me  they  were  going  to  sit  close  at  the  window, 
as  usual.  So  far  the  chance  was  mine.  The 
clock  in  the  turret  struck  the  quarter  to  twelve 
as  they  settled  themselves  in  their  chairs.  I 
heard  Madame  Fosco  through  the  open  window 
yawning,  and  saw  her  shadow  pass  once  more 
across  the  white  field  of  the  blind. 

Meanwhile  Sir  Percival  and  the  Count  began 
talking  together  below,  now  and  then  dropping 
their  voices  a  little  lower  than  usual,  but  never 
sinking  them  to  a  whisper.  The  strangeness 
and  peril  of  my  situation — the  dread,  which  I 
coiild  not  master,  of  Madame  Fosco's  lighted 


window,  made  it  difficult,  almost  impossible  for 
me  at  first  to  keep  my  presence  of  mind,  and  to 
fix  my  attention  solely  on  the  conversation  be- 
neath. For  some  minutes  I  could  only  succeed 
in  gathering  the  general  substance  of  it.  I  un- 
derstood the  Count  to  say  that  the  one  window 
alight  was  his  wife's  ;  that  the  ground-floor  of 
the  house  was  quite  clear;  and  that  they  might 
now  speak  to  each  other  without  fear  of  acci- 
dents. Sir  Percival  merely  answered  by  up- 
braiding his  friend  with  having  unjustifiably 
slighted  his  wishes  and  neglected  his  interests 
all  through  the  day.  The  Count  thereupon  de- 
fended himself  by  declaring  that  he  had  been 
beset  by  certain  troubles  and  anxieties  which 
had  absorbed  all  his  attention,  and  that  the  only 
safe  time  to  come  to  an  explanation  was  a  time 
when  they  could  feel  quite  certain  of  being  nei- 
ther interrupted  nor  ovei-heard.  "We  are  at  a 
serious  crisis  in  our  afitairs,  Percival,"  he  said ; 
"  and  if  we  are  to  decide  on  the  future  at  all 
we  must  decide  secretly  to-night." 

That  sentence  of  the  Count's  was  the  first 
which  my  attention  was  ready  enough  to  master 
exactly  as  it  was  spoken.  From  this  point,  with 
certain  breaks  and  interruptions,  my  whole  in- 
terest fixed  breathlessly  on  the  conversation, 
and  I  followed  it  word  for  word. 


136 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


"Crisis?"  repeated  Sir  Percival.  "It's  a 
worse  crisis  than  you  thinlv  for,  I  can  tell  you !" 

"  So  I  should  suppose,  from  your  behavior 
for  the  last  day  or  two,"  returned  the  other, 
coolly.  "  But  wait  a  little.  Before  we  advance 
to  what  I  do  not  know,  let  us  be  quite  certain 
of  what  I  do  know.  Let  us  first  see  if  I  am 
right  about  the  tiime  that  is  past,  before  I  make 
any  proposal  to  you  for  the  time  that  is  to 
come." 

"  Stop  till  I  get  the  brandy  and  water.  Have 
some  yourself." 

"  Thank  you,  Percival.  The  cold  water  with 
pleasure,  a  spoon,  and  the  basin  of  sugar.  Eau 
sucree,  my  friend — nothing  more." 

"  Sugar  and  water  for  a  man  of  your  age ! — 
There  !  mix  your  sickly  mess.  You  foreigners 
are  all  alike." 

"  Now,  listen,  Percival.  I  will  put  our  posi- 
tion plainly  before  you,  as  I  understand  it;  and 
you  shall  say  if  I  am  right  or  wrong.  You  and 
I  both  came  back  to  this  house  from  the  Con- 
tinent, with  our  affairs  very  seriously  embar- 
rassed— " 

"  Cut  it  short !  I  wanted  some  thousands,  and 
you  some  hundreds — and  without  the  money 
we  were  both  in  a  fair  way  to  go  to  the  dogs  to- 
gether. There's  the  situation.  Make  what  you 
can  of  it.     Go  on." 

"Well,  Percival,  in  your  own  solid  English 
words  you  wanted  some  thousands  and  I  want- 
ed some  hundreds,  and  the  only  way  of  getting 
them  was  for  you  to  raise  the  money  for  your 
own  necessities  (with  a  small  margin  beyond  for 
my  poor  little  hundreds)  by  the  help  of  your 
wife.  What  did  I  tell  you  about  your  wife  on 
our  way  to  England?  and  what  did  I  tell  you 
again,  when  we  had  come  here,  and  when  I  had 
seen  for  myself  the  sort  of  woman  Miss  Hal- 
combe  was  ?" 

"  How  should  I  know  ?  You  talked  nineteen 
to  the  dozen,  I  suppose,  just  as  usual." 

"  I  said  this  :  Human  ingenuity,  my  friend, 
has  hitherto  only  discovered  two  ways  in  which 
a  man  can  manage  a  woman.  One  way  is  to 
knock  her  down — a  method  largely  adopted  by 
the  brutal  lower  orders  of  the  people,  but  utter- 
ly abhorrent  to  the  refined  and  educated  class- 
es above  them.  The  other  way  (much  longer, 
much  more  difficult,  but  in  the  end  not  less 
certain)  is  never  to  accept  a  pi'ovocation  at  a 
woman's  hands.  It  holds  with  animals,  it  holds 
with  children,  and  it  holds  with  women,  who  are 
nothing  but  children  grown  up.  Quiet  resolu- 
tion is  the  one  quality  the  animals,  the  children, 
and  the  women  all  fail  in.  If  they  can  once 
shake  this  superior  quality  in  their  master,  they 
get  the  better  of  him.  If  they  can  never  suc- 
ceed in  disturbing  it,  he  gets  the  better  of  tltem. 
I  said  to  you,  Ixemcmber  that  plain  truth  when 
you  want  your  wife  to  help  you  to  the  money. 
I  said.  Remember  it  doubly  and  trebly  in  the 
presence  of  your  wife's  sister.  Miss  Halcombe. 
Have  you  remembered  it?  Not  once,  in  all 
the  com])lications  that  have  twisted  themselves 
about  us  in  this  house.  Every  provocation  that 
your  wife  and  her  sister  could  oft'er  to  you  you 
instantly  accepted  from  them.  Your  mad  tem- 
per lost  the  signature  to  the  deed,  lost  the  ready 
money,  set  Miss  Halcombe  wi"iting  to  the  law- 
yer, for  the  first  time — " 

"  First  time  ?  what  do  you  mean  ?" 


"  This.  Miss  Halcombe  has  written  to  the 
lawyer  for  the  second  time  to-day." 

A  chair  fell  on  the  pavement  of  the  veranda 
— fell  with  a  crash,  as  if  it  had  been  struck  or 
kicked  down.  It  was  well  for  me  that  the 
Count's  revelation  roused  Sir  Percival's  anger 
as  it  did.  On  heai'ing  that  I  had  been  again 
discovered  my  self-control  failed  me  at  the  crit- 
ical moment,  and  I  started  so  that  the  railing 
against  which  I  leaned  cracked  again.  How 
in  the  name  of  Heaven  had  he  found  me  out? 
The  letters  had  never  left  my  own  possession 
till  I  myself  placed  them  in  Fanny's  hands  at 
the  inn. 

"Thank  your  lucky  star,"  I  heard  the  Count 
say  next,  "  that  you  have  me  in  the  house  to 
undo  the  harm  as  fast  as  you  do  it.  Thank 
your  lucky  star  that  I  said  No  when  you  were 
mad  enough  to  talk  of  turning  the  key  to-day  on 
Miss  Halcombe,  as  you  turned  it,  in  your  mis- 
chievous folly,  on  your  wife.  Where  are  your 
eyes?  Can  you  look  at  Miss  Halcombe  and 
not  see  that  she  has  the  foresight  and  the  reso- 
lution of  a  man?  With  that  woman  for  my 
friend,  I  would  snap  these  fingers  of  mine  at  the 
world.  With  that  woman  for  my  enemy,  I,  with 
all  my  brains  and  experience — I,  Fosco,  cunning 
as  the  devil  himself,  as  you  have  told  me  a  hun- 
dred times — I  walk,  in  your  English  phrase,  upon 
egg-shells !  And  this  grand  creature — I  drink 
her  health  in  my  sugar  and  water — this  grand 
creature,  who  stands  in  the  strength  of  her  love 
and  her  courage,  firm  as  a  rock  between  us  two 
and  that  poor  fiimsy  pretty  blonde  wife  of  yours 
— this  magnificent  woman,  whom  I  admire  with 
all  my  soul,  though  I  oppose  her  in  your  inter- 
ests and  in  mine,  you  drive  to  extremities,  as  if 
she  was  no  sharper  and  no  bolder  than  the  rest 
of  her  sex.  Percival !  Percival !  you  deserve  to 
fail,  and  you  have  failed." 

There  was  a  pause.  I  write  the  villain's  words 
about  myself  because  I  mean  to  remember  them, 
because  I  hope  yet  for  the  day  when  I  may 
speak  out,  once  for  all,  in  his  presence,  and  cast 
them  back,  one  by  one,  in  his  teeth. 

Sir  Percival  was  the  first  to  break  the  silence 
again. 

"Yes,  yes;  bully  and  bluster  as  much  as  you 
like,"  he  said,  sulkily;  "the  difiiculty  about  the 
money  is  not  the  only  difficulty.  You  would 
be  for  taking  strong  measures  with  the  woman 
yourself,  if  you  knew  as  much  as  I  do." 

"  We  will  come  to  that  second  difficulty  all  in 
good  time,"  rejoined  the  Count.  "You  may 
confuse  yourself,  Percival,  as  much  as  you  please, 
but  you  shall  not  confuse  me.  Let  the  question 
of  the  money  be  settled  first.  Have  I  convinced 
your  obstinacy?  have  I  shown  you  that  your 
temper  will  not  let  you  help  yourself?  —  or 
must  I  go  back  and  (as  yovi  put  it  in  your  dear 
straightforward  English)  bully  and  bluster  a 
little  more?" 

"Pooh!  It's  easy  enough  to  grumble  at  me. 
Say  what  is  to  be  done — that's  a  little  harder." 

"Is  it?  Bah!  This  is  what  is  to  be  done: 
You  give  up  all  direction  in  the  business  from 
to-night;  and  you  leave  it,  for  the  fiUure,  in  mv 
hands  only.  I  am  talking  to  a  Practical  British 
Man — ha"?  Well,  Practical,  will  that  do  for 
you  ?" 

"What  do  you  propose  if  I  leave  it  all  to 
you?" 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


137 


"  Answer  me  first.  Is  it  to  be  in  my  hands 
or  not  ?" 

"  Say  it  is  in  your  hands — what  then  ?" 

"A  few  questions,  Fercival,  to  begin  with.  I 
must  wait  a  little  yet  to  let  circumstances  guide 
me ;  and  I  must  know,  in  every  possible  way, 
what  those  circumstances  are  likely  to  be.  There 
is  no  time  to  lose.  I  have  told  you  already  that 
Miss  Halcombe  has  written  to  the  lawyer  to-day 
tor  the  second  time." 

"How  did  you  find  it  out?  What  did  she 
say  ?" 

'"  If  I  told  you,  Percival,  we  should  only  come 
back  at  the  end  to  where  we  are  now.  Enough 
that  I  have  found  out — and  the  finding  has 
caused  that  trouble  and  anxiety  which  made  me 
so  inaccessible  to  you  all  through  to-day.  Now 
to  refresh  my  memory  about  your  afiairs — it  is 
some  time  since  I  talked  them  over  with  you. 
The  money  has  been  raised,  in  the  absence  of 
your  wife's  signature,  by  means  of  bills  at  three 
months — i-aised  at  a  cost  that  makes  my  poverty- 
stricken  foreign  hair  stand  on  end  to  think  of 
it !  When  the  bills  are  due,  is  there  really  and 
truly  no  earthly  way  of  paying  them  but  by  the 
help  of  your  wife  ?" 

"  None." 

"What!  You  have  no  money  at  the  bank- 
er's!" 

"A  few  hundreds,  when  I  want  as  many 
thousands." 

"  Have  you  no  other  security  to  borrow 
upon  ?" 

"Not  a  shred." 

"What  have  you  actually  got  with  your  wife 
at  the  present  moment?" 

"  Nothing  but  the  interest  of  her  twenty  thou- 
sand pounds — barely  enough  to  pay  our  daily 
expenses." 

"  What  do  yoi^  expect  from  your  wife  ?" 

"Three  thousand  a  year,  when  her  uncle 
dies." 

' '  A  fine  fortune,  Percival.  What  sort  of  a 
man  is  this  uncle?     Old?" 

"  No — neither  old  nor  young." 

"  A  good-tempered,  freely-living  man  ?  Mar- 
ried? No,  I  think  my  wife  told  me  not  mar- 
ried." 

"  Of  course  not.  If  he  was  married,  and  had 
a  son.  Lady  Glyde  would  not  be  next  heir  to 
the  property.  I'll  tell  you  what  he  is.  He's  a 
maudlin,  twaddling,  selfish  fool,  and  bores  ev- 
ery body  who  comes  near  him  about  the  state  of 
his  health." 

"  Men  of  that  sort,  Percival,  live  long  and 
marry  malevolently  when  you  least  expect  it. 
I  don't  give  you  much,  my  friend,  for  your 
chance  of  the  three  thousand  a  year.  Is  there 
nothing  more  that  comes  to  you  from  your 
wife?" 

"Nothing." 

"Absolutely  nothing?" 

"  Absolutely  nothing — except  in  case  of  her 
death." 

"Aha!  in  the  case  of  her  death." 

There  was  another  pause.  Tlve  Count  moved 
from  the  veranda  to  the  gravel- walk  outside.  I 
knew  that  he  had  moved  by  his  voice.  "The 
rain  has  come  at  last,"  I  heard  him  say.  It  had 
come.  The  state  of  my  cloak  showed  that  it 
had  been  falling  thickly  for  some  little  time. 

The  Count  went  back  under  the  veranda — I 


heard  the  chair  creak  beneath  his  weight  as  he 
sat  down  in  it  again. 

"Well,  Percival,"  he  said,  "and  in  the  case 
of  Lady  Clyde's  death,  what  do  you  get  then  ?" 

"If  she  leaves  no  children — " 

"  Which  she  is  likely  to  do?" 

"  Which  she  is  not  in  the  least  likely  to  do — " 

"Yes?" 

"Why,  then  I  get  her  twenty  thousand 
pounds." 

"Paid  down?" 

"Paid  down." 

They  were  silent  once  more.  As  their  voices 
ceased  Madame  Fosco's  shadow  darkened  the 
blind  again.  Instead  of  passing  this  time  it 
remained  for  a  moment  quite  still.  I  saw  her 
fingers  steal  round  the  corner  of  the  blind  and 
draw  it  on  one  side.  The  dim  white  outline  of 
her  face,  looking  out  straight  over  me,  ajjpeared 
behind  the  window.  I  kept  quite  still,  shrouded 
from  head  to  foot  in  my  black  cloak.  The  rain, 
which  was  fast  wetting  me,  dripped  over  the 
glass,  blurred  it,  and  prevented  her  from  seeing 
any  thing.  "More  rain!"  I  heard  her  say  to 
herself.  She  dropped  the  blind,  and  I  breathed 
again  freely. 

The  talk  went  on  below  me,  the  Count  re- 
suming it  tliis  time. 

"Percival!  do  you  care  about  your  wife?" 

"  Fosco!  that's  rather  a  downright  question." 

"I  am  a  downright  man,  and  I  repeat  it." 

"  Why  the  devil  do  you  look  at  me  in  that 
way  ?" 

"You  won't  answer  me?  Well,  then,  let  us 
say  Your  wife  dies  before  the  summer  is  out — " 

"Drop  it,  Fosco!" 

"  Let  us  say  your  wife  dies — " 

"Drop  it,  I  tell  you!" 

"In  that  case  you  would  gain  twenty  thou- 
sand pounds,  and  you  would  lose — " 

"  I  should  lose  the  chance  of  three  thousand 
a  year." 

"The  remote  chance,  Percival — the  remote 
chance  only.     And  you  want  money  at  once. 
In  your  position  the  gain  is  certain,  the  loss 
:  doubtful." 

I  "  Speak  for  yourself  as  well  as  for  me.  Some 
of  the  money  I  want  has  been  borrowed  for  you. 
And  if  you  come  to  gain,  my  wife's  death  would 
be  ten  "thousand  pounds  in  your  wife's  pocket. 
Sharp  as  you  are  you  seem  to  have  conveniently 
forgotten  Madame  Fosco's  legacy.  Don't  look 
at  me  in  that  way !  I  won't  have  it !  What 
with  your  looks  and  your  questions,  upon  my 
soul  you  make  my  flesh  creep !" 

"Your  flesh?  Does  flesh  mean  conscience 
in  English  ?  I  speak  of  your  wife's  death  as  I 
speak  of  a  possibility.  Why  not  ?  The  respect- 
able lawyers  who  scribble-scrabble  your  deeds 
and  your  wills  look  the  deaths  of  living  people 
in  the  face.  Do  lawyers  make  your  flesh  creep  'I 
Why  should  I  ?  It  is  my  business  to-night  to 
'  clear  up  your  position  beyond  the  possibility 
of  mistake  —  and  I  have  now  done  it.  Here 
i  is  your  position :  If  your  wife  lives,  you  pay 
those  bills  with  her  signature  to  the  parch- 
ment. If  your  wife  dies,  you  pay  them  witli 
her  death." 

As  he  spoke  the  light  in  Madame  Fosco's 
room  was  extinguished,  and  the  whole  second 
floor  of  the  liouse  was  now  sunk  in  darkness. 

' '  Talk !  talk !"  grumbled  Sir  Percival.    "  One 


138 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


^voukl  think,  to  hear  you,  that  niv  wife's  sig- 
nature to  the  deed  was  got  ah-eady." 

"You  liave  left  the  matter  in  my  hands,"  re- 
torted the  Count ;  "  and  I  have  more  than  two 
montlis  before  me  to  turn  round  in.  Say  no 
more  about  it,  if  you  please,  for  the  jjresent. 
When  the  bills  are  due  you  will  see  for  your- 
self if  my  'talk!  talk!'  is  worth  something,  or 
if  it  is  not.  And  now,  Percival,  having  done 
with  the  money  matters  for  to-night,  I  can  place 
my  attention  at  your  disposal  if  you  wish  to 
consult  me  on  that  second  ditficulty,  which  has 
mixed  itself  u]i  with  our  little  embarrassments, 
and  which  has  so  altered  you  for  the  worse  that 
I  hardly  know  you  again.  Speak,  my  friend — 
and  pardon  me  if  I  shock  your  fier}^  national 
tastes  by  mixing  myself  a  second  glass  of  sugar- 
and-water." 

"  It's  very  well  to  say  speak,"  replied  Sir  Per- 
cival, in  a  far  more  quiet  and  more  polite  tone 
than  he  had  yet  adopted ;  "  but  it's  not  so  easy 
to  know  how  to  begin." 

"SluxU  I  help  you?"  suggested  the  Count. 
"  Sliall  I  give  this  private  difficulty  of  yours  a 
name  ?    What  if  I  call  it — Anne  Catherick  ?" 

"Look  here,  Fosco,  you  and  I  have  known 
each  other  for  a  long  time ;  and,  if  you  have 
helped  me  out  of  one  or  two  scrapes  before  this, 
I  have  done  the  best  I  could  to  help  you  in  re- 
turn as  far  as  money  would  go.  We  have  made 
as  many  friendly  sacrifices,  on  both  sides,  as 
men  could ;  but  we  have  had  our  secrets  from 
each  other,  of  course — haven't  Ave  ?" 

"You  have  had  a  secret  from  me,  Percival. 
There  is  a  skeleton  in  your  cupboard  here  at 
Blackwater  Park  that  has  peeped  out,  in  these 
last  few  days,  at  other  people  besides  yourself." 

"  Well,  suppose  it  has.  If  it  doesn't  concern 
you,  3'ou  needn't  be  curious  about  it,  need  jou  ?" 

"Do  I  look  curious  about  it?" 

"Yes,  you  do." 

"So!  so!  my  face  speaks  the  truth  then? 
What  an  immense  foundation  of  good  there 
must  be  in  the  nature  of  a  man  who  arrives  at 
my  age,  and  whose  face  has  not  yet  lost  the 
habit  of  speaking  the  truth !  Come,  Glyde,  let 
us  be  candid  one  with  the  other.  This  secret 
of  yours  has  sought  7ne:  I  have  not  sought  it. 
Let  us  say  I  am  curious — do  j'ou  ask  me,  as 
your  old  friend,  to  respect  your  secret,  and  to 
leave  it,  once  for  all,  in  your  own  keeping?" 

"Yes — that's  just  what  I  do  ask." 

"Then  my  curiosity  is  at  an  end.  It  dies  in 
me  from  this  moment." 

"Do  you  really  mean  that?" 

"  Wliat  makes  you  doubt  me?" 

"I  have  some  experience,  Fosco,  of  your 
roundabout  ways,  and  I  am  not  so  sure  that 
you  won't  worm  it  out  of  me  after  all." 

The  cliair  below  suddenlv  creaked  again — I 
felt  the  trellis-work  pillar  under  me  shake  from 
top  to  bottom.  The  Count  had  started  to  his 
feet  and  struck  it  with  Jiis  hand  in  indignation. 

"  Percival !  Percival !"  he  cried,  passionately, 
"do  you  know  me  no  better  than  that?  Has 
all  your  experience  shown  you  nothing  of  my 
character  yet  ?  I  am  a  man  of  the  auti(pie  type  ! 
I  am  capable  of  the  most  exalted  acts  of  virtue 
— when  1  li.ave  the  chance  of  perforniing  tliem. 
It  has  been  the  misfortune  of  my  life  that  I  have 
had  few  chances.  My  conception  of  friendship 
IS  sublime!     Is  it  my  fault  that  your  skeleton 


has  peeped  out  at  me  ?  Why  do  I  confess  mv 
curiosity?  You  ])oor  superticial  Englishman, 
it  is  to  magnify  my  own  self-control.  I  could 
draw  your  secret  out  of  you,  if  I  liked,  as  I 
draw  this  finger  out  of  the  palm  of  my  hand — 
you  know  I  could!  But  you  have  ajTpealed  to 
my  friendship;  and  the  duties  of  friendship  are 
sacred  to  me.  See !  I  trample  my  base  curiosity 
under  my  feet.  My  exalted  sentiments  lift  me 
above  it.  Recognize  them,  Percival!  imitate 
them,  Percival !     Shake  hands— I  forgive  you." 

His  voice  laltered  over  tlie  last  words— fal- 
tered, as  if  he  was  actually  shedding  tears! 

Sir  Percival  confusedly  attempted  to  excuse 
himself.  But  the  Count  was  too  magnanimous 
to  listen  to  him. 

"No!"  he  said.  ""When  my  friend  has 
wounded  me  I  can  pardon  him  without  apolo- 
gies. Tell  me,  in  plain  words,  do  vou  want  mv 
help?" 

"  Yes,  badly  enough." 

"  And  you  can  ask  for  it  without  compromis- 
ing yourself?" 

I  can  try,  at  any  rate." 


"Try,  then.' 


"Well,  this  is  how  it  stands:  I  told  you  to- 
day that  I  liad  done  my  best  to  find  Anne  Cath- 
erick, and  failed." 

"  Yes,  you  did." 

"  Fosco  !  I'm  a  lost  man  if  I  don't  find  her." 

"  Ha !     Is  it  so  serious  as  that  ?" 

A  little  stream  of  light  traveled  out  under 
tlie  veranda  and  fell  over  the  gravel-walk. 
The  Count  had  taken  the  lamp  from  the  inner 
]>art  of  the  room  to  see  his  friend  clearly  by  the 
light  of  it. 

"Yes!"  he  said.  "  Yom-  face  speaks  the 
truth  this  time.  Serious,  indeed — as  serious  as 
the  money  matters  themselves." 

"  More  serious.     As  true  as  I  sit  here,  more 


serious 


I" 


Tlie  light  disappeared  again,  and  the  talk 
went  on. 

"I  showed  you  the  letter  to  my  wife  that 
Anne  Catherick  hid  in  the  sand,"  Sir  Percival 
continued.  "There's  no  boasting  in  that  letter, 
Fosco — she  does  know  the  Secret." 

"  Say  as  little  as  possible,  Percival,  in  my 
presence,  of  the  Secret.  Does  she  know  it  from 
you?" 

"No;  from  her  mother." 

"Two  women  in  possession  of  your  private 
mind — bad,  bad,  bad,  my  friend  !  One  question 
here  before  we  go  any  farther.  The  motive  of 
your  shutting  up  the  daughter  in  the  asylum  is 
now  plain  enough  to  me ;  but  the  manner  of 
her  escape  is  not  quite  so  clear.  Do  you  sus- 
pect the  people  in  charge  of  her  of  closing  their 
eyes  purposely  at  the  instance  of  some  enemy 
of  vours,  who  could  aflbrd  to  make  it  worth 
their  while  ?" 

"No;  she  was  the  best-behaved  patient  they 
had — and,  like  fools,  they  trusted  her.  She's 
just  mad  enough  to  be  shut  up,  and  just  sane 
enough  to  ruin  me  when  she's  at  large — if  j-ou 
understand  that?" 

"I  do  understand  it.  Now,  Percival,  come 
at  once  to  the  jioint,  and  then  I  shall  know 
what  to  do.  Where  is  the  danger  of  your  jiosi- 
tion  at  the  present  moment?" 

"Anne  Catherick  is  in  this  neighborhood, 
and  in  communication  with  Ladv  Glvde — there's 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


139 


the  danger  pLain  enough.  Who  can  read  the 
letter  she  hid  in  the  sand  and  not  see  that  my 
wife  is  in  possession  of  the  secret,  deny  it  as 
she  may  ?" 

"One  moment,  Percival.  If  Lady  Glyde 
does  know  the  secret,  she  must  know  also  that 
it  is  a  compromising  secret  for  you.  As  your 
wife,  surely  it  is  her  interest  to  keep  it?" 

"Is  it?  I'm  coming  to  that.  It  might  be  her 
interest  if  she  cared  two  straws  about  me.  But 
I  happen  to  be  an  encumbrance  in  the  way  of 
another  man.  She  was  in  love  witli  him  before 
she  married  me — she's  in  love  with  him  now — 
an  infernal  vagabond  of  a  drawing  -  master, 
named  Hartright." 

"My  dear  friend!  what  is  there  extraordina- 
ry in  that?  They  are  all  in  love  with  some 
other  man.  Who  gets  the  first  of  a  woman's 
heart?  In  all  my  experience  I  have  never  yet 
met  with  the  man  who  was  Number  One.  Num- 
l)er  Two,  sometimes.  Number  Three,  Four, 
Five,  often.  Number  One,  never!  He  exists, 
of  course — but  I  have  not  met  with  him." 

"  Wait !  I  haven't  done  yet.  Who  do  vou 
think  helped  Anne  Catherick  to  get  the  start, 
when  the  people  from  the  mad-house  were  after 
her?  Hartright.  Wlio  do  you  think  saw  her 
again  in  Cumberland?  Hartright.  Botii  times 
he  spoke  to  her  alone.  Stop!  don't  interrupt 
me.  The  scoundrel's  as  sweet  on  my  wife  as 
she  is  on  him.  He  knows  the  secret,  and  she 
knows  the  secret.  Once  let  them  both  get  to- 
gether again,  and  it's  her  interest  and  his  inter- 
est to  turn  their  information  against  me." 

"  Gently,  Percival — gentlv  !  Are  you  insens- 
ible to  the  virtue  of  Lady  Glvde  ?" 

"That  for  the  virtue  of  Lady  Glyde!  I  be- 
lieve in  nothing  about  her  but  her  money. 
Don't  you  see  liow  the  case  stands  ?  She  might 
be  harmless  enough  by  herself;  but  if  she  and 
that  vagabond  Hartright — " 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  see.    Where  is  Mr.  Hartright?" 

"Out  of  the  country.  If  he  means  to  keep  a 
whole  skin  on  his  bones,  I  recommend  him  not 
to  come  back  in  a  hurry." 

"Are  you  sure  he  is  out  of  the  country?" 

"  Certain.  I  had  him  watched  from  the  time 
he  left  Cumberland  to  the  time  he  sailed.  Oh, 
I've  been  careful,  I  can  tell  you!  Anne  Cath- 
erick lived  with  some  people  at  a  farm-house 
near  Limmeridge.  I  went  there  myself,  after 
she  had  given  me  the  slip,  and  made  sure  that 
they  knew  nothing.  I  gave  her  mother  a  form 
of  letter  to  write  to  Miss  Halcombe,  exonera- 
ting me  from  any  bad  motive  in  putting  her 
nnder  restraint.  I've  spent,  I'm  afraid  to  say 
how  much,  in  trying  to  trace  her.  And,  in 
spite  of  it  all,  she  turns  up  here,  and  escapes  me 
on  my  own  property !  How  do  I  know  who  else 
may  see  her,  who  else  may  speak  to  her  ?  That 
prying  scoundrel,  Hartright,  may  come  back 
without  my  knowing  it,  and  may  make  use  of 
her  to-morrow — " 

"  Not  he,  Percival !  While  I  am  on  the  spot, 
and  while  that  woman  is  in  the  neighborhood,  I 
will  answer  for  our  laying  hands  on  her  before 
Mr.  Hartright — even  if  he  does  come  back.  I 
see!  yes,  yes,  I  see!  The  finding  of  Anne 
Catherick  is  the  first  necessity:  make  your 
mind  easy  about  the  rest.  Your  wife  is  here, 
under  your  thumb ;  Miss  Halcombe  is  insepa- 
rable from  her,  and  is,  therefore,  nnder  your 


thumb  also ;  and  Mr.  Hartright  is  out  of  the 
country.  This  invisible  Anne  of  yours  is  all  we 
have  to  think  of  for  the  present,  Y'ou  have 
made  your  inquiries?" 

"Yes.  I  have  been  to  her  mother;  I  have 
ransacked  the  village — and  all  to  no  purpose." 

"  Is  her  mother  to  be  depended  on  ?" 

"Yes." 

"She  has  told  your  secret  once." 

"  She  won't  tell  it  again." 

"  Why  not  ?  Are  her  own  interests  concern- 
ed in  keeping  it  as  well  as  yours?" 

"Y'es — deeply  concerned." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it,  Percival,  for  your 
sake.  Don't  be  discouraged,  my  friend.  Our 
money  matters,  as  I  told  yon,  leave  me  plenty 
of  time  to  turn  round  in  ;  and  /  may  search  for 
Anne  Catherick  to-morrow  to  a  better  jiurpose 
than  you.  One  last  c^uestion  before  we  go  to 
bed." 

"What  is  it?" 

"It  is  this.  A^Tien  I  went  to  the  boat-house 
to  tell  Lady  Glyde  that  the  little  difiiculty  of 
her  signature  was  put  off,  accident  took  me 
there  in  time  to  see  a  strange  woman  ])arting  in 
a  very  susjiicious  manner  from  your  wife.  But 
accident  did  not  bring  me  near  enough  to  see 
this  same  woman's  face  plainly.  I  must  know 
how  to  recognize  our  invisible  Anne.  What  is 
she  like  ?" 

"Like?  Come!  I'll  tell  yon  in  two  words. 
She's  a  sickly  likeness  of  my  wife." 

The  chair  creaked,  and  tlie  jiillar  shook  once 
more.  The  Count  was  on  his  feet  again — this 
time  in  astonishment. 

"  What ! ! !"  he  exclaimed,  eagerly. 

"Fancy  my  wife,  after  a  bad  illness,  wjth  a 
touch  of  something  wrong  in  her  head — and 
there  is  Anne  Catherick  for  you,"  answered. Sir 
Percival. 

"  Are  they  related  to  each  other?" 

"Not  a  bit  of  it." 

"And  yet  so  like?" 

"Yes,  so  like.    What  are  yon  laughing  about?" 

There  was  no  answer  and  no  sound  of  any 
kind,  the  Count  was  laughing  in  his  smooth, 
silent,  internal  way. 

"What  are  you  laughing  about?"  reiterated 
Sir  Percival. 

"  Perhaps  at  my  own  fancies,  my  good  friend. 
Allow  me  my  Italian  humor^do  I  not  come  of 
the  illustrious  nation  whicli  invented  the  exhibi- 
tion of  Punch  ?  Well,  well,  well,  I  shall  know 
Anne  Catherick  when  I  see  her — and  so  enough 
for  to-night.  ]\Iake  your  mind  easy,  Percival. 
Sleep,  my  son,  the  sleep  of  the  just ;  and  see 
what  I  will  do  for  you  when  daylight  comes  to 
help  US  both.  I  have  my  projects  and  my  plans 
here  in  my  big  head.  You  shall  pay  those  bills 
and  find  Anne  Catherick — my  sacred  word  of 
honor  on  it,  but  you  shall!  Am  I  a  friend  to 
be  treasured  in  the  best  corner  of  your  heart,  or 
am  I  not  ?  Am  I  worth  those  loans  of  money 
which  you  so  delicately  reminded  me  of  a  little 
while  since  ?  Whatever  you  do,  never  wound 
me  in  my  sentiments  any  more.  Recognize 
them,  Percival !  imitate  them,  Percival !  I  for- 
give you  again;  I  shake  hands  again.  Good- 
night!" 

Not  another  word  was  spoken.  I  heard  the 
Count  close  the  library  door.     I  heard  Sir  Per- 


140 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


cival  barring  up  the  window-shutters.  It  had 
been  raining,  raining  all  tlie  time.  I  was  cramped 
by  my  position,  and  chilled  to  the  bones.  When 
I  first  tried  to  move,  the  etibrt  was  so  painful 
to  me  that  I  was  obliged  to  desist.  I  tried  a 
second  time,  and  succeeded  in  rising  to  my 
knees  on  the  wet  roof. 

As  I  crept  to  the  wall  and  raised  myself 
against  it  I  looked  back,  and  saw  the  window 
of  the  Count's  dressing-room  gleam  into  light. 
My  sinking  courage  flickered  up  in  me  again, 
and  kept  my  eyes  fixed  on  his  window  as  I  stole 
my  way,  step  by  step,  back  along  the  wall  of 
the  house. 

The  clock  struck  the  quarter-past  one  when  I 
laid  my  hands  on  the  window-sill  of  my  own 
room.  I  had  seen  nothing  and  heard  nothing 
which  could  lead  me  to  suppose  that  my  retreat 
had  been  discovered. 

July  6th. — Eight  o'clock.  The  sun  is  shining 
in  a  clear  sky.  I  have  not  been  near  my  bed — 
I  have  not  once  closed  my  weary,  wakeful  eyes. 
From  the  same  window  at  which  I  looked  out 
into  the  darkness  of  last  night  I  look  out  now 
at  the  bright  stillness  of  the  morning. 

I  count  the  hours  that  have  passed  since  I 
escaped  to  the  shelter  of  this  room  by  my  own 
sensations — and  those  hours  seem  like  weeks. 

How  short  a  time — and  yet  how  long  to  me — 
since  I  sank  down  in  the  clarkness  here,  on  the 
floor,  drenched  to  the  skin,  cramped  in  every 
limb,  cold  to  the  bones — a  useless,  helpless, 
panic-stricken  creature. 

I  hai'dly  know  when  I  roused  myself.  I  hard- 
ly know  when  I  groped  my  way  back  to  the  bed- 
room, and  lighted  the  candle,  and  searched  (with 
a  strange  ignorance  at  first  of  where  to  look 
for  them)  for  dry  clothes  to  warm  me.  The 
doing  of  these  things  is  in  my  mind,  but  not 
the  time  when  they  were  done. 

Can  I  even  remember  when  the  chilled, 
cramped  feeling  left  me,  and  the  throbbing  heat 
came  in  its  place  ? 

Surely  it  was  before  the  sun  rose?  Yes;  I 
heard  the  clock  strike  three.  I  remember  the 
time  by  the  sudden  brightness  and  clearness, 
the  feverish  strain  and  excitement  of  all  my 
faculties  which  came  with  it.  I  remember  my 
resolution  to  control  myself,  to  wait  patiently, 
hour  after  hour,  till  the  chance  ofi'ered  of  re- 
moving Laura  from  this  horrible  place,  without 
the  danger  of  immediate  discovery  and  pursuit. 
I  remember  the  persuasion  settling  itself  in  my 
mind  that  the  words  those  two  men  had  said  to 
each  other  would  furnish  us,  not  only  with  our 
justification  for  leaving  the  house,  but  with  our 
weapons  of  defense  against  them  as  well.  I 
recall  the  impulse  that  awakened  in  me  to  pre- 
serve those  words  in  writing  exactly  as  they 
were  spoken,  while  the  time  was  my  own,  and 
while  my  memory  vividly  retained  "them.  All 
this  I  remember  plainly :  there  is  no  confusion 
in  my  head  yet.  The  coming  in  here  from 
the  bedroom,  with  my  ])cn  and  ink  and  paper, 
before  sunrise — the  sitting  down  at  the  widely- 
opened  window  to  get  all  the  air  I  could  to  cool 
me — the  ceaseless  writing,  faster  and  faster, 
hotter  aiul  hotter,  driving  on,  more  and  more 
wakefuUy,  all  through  the  dreadful  interval  be- 
fore the  house  was  astir  again — how  clearly  I 
recall  it,  from  the  beginning  by  candle-light  to 


the  end  on  the  page  before  this  in  the  sunshine 
of  the  new  day  ! 

Why  do  I  sit  here  still  ?  Why  do  I  weary  my 
hot  eyes  and  my  burning  head  by  writing  more  ? 
Why  not  lie  down  and  rest  myself,  and  try  to 
quench  the  fever  that  consumes  me  in  sleep? 

I  dare  not  attempt  it.  A  fear  beyond  all 
other  fears  has  got  possession  of  me.  I  am 
afraid  of  this  heat  that  parches  my  skin.  I  am 
afraid  of  the  creeping  and  throbbing  that  I  feel 
in  my  head.  If  1  lie  down  now,  how  do  I  know 
that  I  may  have  the  sense  and  the  strength  to 
rise  again  ? 

Oh,  the  rain,  the  rain — the  cruel  rain  that 
chilled  me  last  night! 

****** 

Nine  o'clock.  Was  it  nine  struck,  or  eight  ? 
Nine,  surely?  I  am  shivering  again — shiver- 
ing, from  head  to  foot,  in  the  summer  air. 
Have  I  been  sitting  here  asleep?  I  don't  know 
what  I  have  been  doing. 

Oh,  my  God !  am  I  going  to  be  ill  ? 

Ill  at  such  a  time  as  this!  No,  no;  not  ill. 
Only  cold.     So  cold,  so  cold! 

My  head — I  am  sadly  afraid  of  my  head.  I 
can  write,  but  the  lines  all  run  together.  I  see 
the  words.  Laura — I  can  write  Laura,  and  see 
I  write  it.     Eight  or  nine — which  was  it  ? 

So  cold,  so  cold — oh,  that  rain  last  night ! — 

and  the  strokes  of  the  clock,  the  strokes  I  can't 

count,  keej)  striking  in  my  head — 

*  *  *  *  *  * 

NOTE. 

[At  this  place  the  entry  in  the  Diary  ceases 
to  be  legible.  The  two  or  three  fines  which  fol- 
low contain  fragments  of  words  only,  mingled 
with  blots  and  scratches  of  the  pen.  The  last 
marks  on  the  paper  bear  some  resemblance  to 
the  first  two  letters  (L.  and  A.)  of  the  name  of 
Lady  Clyde. 

On  the  next  page  of  the  Diary  another  entry 
appears.  It  is  in  a  man's  handwriting,  large, 
bold,  and  firmly  regular;  and  the  date  is  "July 
the  13th."     It  contains  these  lines :] 

[postscript  by  a  sincere  friend.] 

The  illness  of  our  excellent  Miss  Halcombe 
has  affbrded  me  the  opportunity  of  enjoying  an 
unexpected  intellectual  pleasure. 

I  refer  to  the  jierusal  (which  I  have  just  com- 
pleted) of  this  interesting  Diary. 

There  are  many  hundred  pages  here.  I  can 
lay  my  hand  on  my  heart  and  declare  that  every 
page  has  charmed,  refreshed,  delighted  me. 

To  a  man  of  my  sentiments  it  is  unspeakably 
gratifying  to  be  able  to  say  this. 

Admirable  woman ! 

I  refer  to  Miss  Halcombe. 

Stupendous  efi'ort ! 

I  refer  to  the  Diary. 

Yes !  these  pages  are  amazing.  The  tact 
which  I  find  here,  the  discretion,  the  rare  cour- 
age, the  wonderful  power  of  memory,  the  accu- 
rate observation  of  character,  the  easy  grace  of 
style,  the  charming  outbursts  of  womanly  feel- 
intr,  have  all  incx))ressil)ly  increased  my  admira- 
tion of  this  sublime  creature,  of  this  magnificent 
Marian.  The  presentation  of  my  own  charac- 
ter is  masterly  in  the  extreme.  I  certify,  with 
my  whole  heart,  to  the  fidelity  of  the  portrait. 


TPIE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


HI 


GOD  !    AM    I    GOING   TO   BE    ILL  Y 


r  feel  how  vivid  an  impression  I  must  have  pro- 
duced to  have  been  painted  in  such  stronji,  such 
rich,  such  massive  colors  as  these.  I  lament 
afresh  the  cruel  necessity  which  sets  our  inter- 
ests at  variance,  and  opposes  us  to  each  other. 
Under  happier  circumstances  how  worthy  I 
should  have  been  of  Miss  Halcombe — how  wor- 
thy Miss  Halcombe  would  have  been  of  me  ! 

The  sentiments  which  animate  my  heart  as- 
sure me  that  the  lines  I  have  just  written  ex- 
press a  Profound  Truth. 

Those  sentiments  exalt  me  above  all  merely 
personal  considerations.  I  bear  witness,  in  the 
most  disinterested  manner,  to  the  excellence  of 
the  stratagem  by  which  this  unparalleled  woman 
surprised  the  private  interview  between  Percival 
and  myself.  Also  to  the  marvelous  accuracy  of 
her  report  of  the  whole  conversation  from  its  be- 
ginning to  its  end. 

Those  sentiments  have  induced  me  to  offer  to 
the  unimpressionable  doctor  who  attends  on  her 
my  vast  knowledge  of  chemistry,  and  my  lumin- 
ous experience  of  the  more  subtle  resources 
which  medical  and  magnetic  science  have  placed 
at  the  disposal  of  mankind.  He  has  hitherto 
declined  to  avail  himself  of  my  assistance.  Mis- 
erable man ! 

Finally,  those  sentiments  dictate  the  lines — 


grateful,  sympathetic,  paternal  lines — which  ap- 
pear in  this  place.  I  close  the  book.  My  strict 
sense  of  propriety  restores  it  (by  the  hands  of 
my  wife)  to  its  place  on  the  writer's  table. 
Events  are  hurrying  me  away.  Circumstances 
are  guiding  me  to  serious  issues.  Vast  per- 
spectives of  success  unroll  themselves  before  my 
eyes.  I  accomplish  my  destiny  with  a  calmness 
which  is  terrible  to  myself.  Nothing  but  the 
homage  of  my  admiration  is  my  own.  I  deposit 
it,  with  respectful  tenderness,  at  the  feet  of  Miss 
Halcombe. 

I  breathe  my  wishes  for  her  recoveiy. 

I  condole  with  her  on  the  inevitable  failure 
of  every  plan  that  she  has  formed  for  her  sister's 
benefit.  At  the  same  time,  I  entreat  her  to  be- 
lieve that  the  information  which  I  have  derived 
from  her  diary  will  in  no  respect  help  me  to 
contribute  to  that  failure.  It  sim]ily  confirms 
the  plan  of  conduct  which  I  had  previously  ar- 
ranged. I  have  to  thank  these  pages  for  awak- 
ening the  finest  sensibilities  in  my  nature — no- 
thing more. 

To  a  person  of  similar  sensibility  this  simple 
assertion  will  explain  and  excuse  every  thing. 

Miss  Halcombe  is  a  person  of  similar  sensi- 
bility.    In  that  persuasion,  I  sign  myself, 

Fosco. 


142 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  FREDERICK  FAIR- 
LIE,  ESQ.,  OF  LIMMEKIDGE  HOUSE.* 

It  is  the  grand  misfortune  of  my  life  that  no- 
body will  let  me  alone.  Why— I  ask  every  body- 
why  worry  me  ?  Nobody  answers  that  question  ; 
and  nobody  lets  me  alone.  Relatives,  friends, 
and  strangers  all  combine  to  annoy  me.  What 
have  I  done?  I  ask  myself,  I  ask  my  servant, 
Louis,  fifty  times  a  day — what  have  I  done  ? 
Neither  of  us  can  tell.     Most  extraordinary ! 

The  last  annoyance  that  has  assailed  me  is 
the  annoyance  of  being  called  upon  to  write 
this  Narrative.  Is  a  man  in  my  state  of  nerv- 
ous wretchedness  cayjable  of  writing  narratives  ? 
When  I  put  this  extremely  reasonable  objection 
I  am  told  that  certain  very  serious  events  relat- 
ing to  my  niece  have  happened  within  my  ex- 
perience, and  that  I  am  the  fit  person  to  de- 
scribe them  on  that  account.  I  am  threatened, 
if  I  fail  to  exert  myself  in  the  manner  required, 
with  consequences  which  I  can  not  so  much  as 
think  of  without  perfect  prostration.  There  is 
really  no  need  to  threaten  me.  Shattered  by 
my  miserable  health  and  my  family  troubles,  I 
am  incapable  of  resistance.  If  you  insist,  you 
take  your  unjust  advantage  of  me,  and  I  give 
way  immediately.  I  will  endeavor  to  remem- 
ber what  I  can  (under  protest),  and  to  write 
what  I  can  (also  under  protest) ;  and  what  I 
can't  remember  and  can't  write  Louis  must  re- 
member and  write  for  me.  He  is  an  ass,  and  I 
am  an  invalid ;  and  we  are  likely  to  make  all  sorts 
of  mistakes  between  us.     How  humiliating ! 

I  am  told  to  remember  dates.  Good  Heav- 
ens !  I  never  did  such  a  thing  in  my  life — how 
am  I  to  begin  now  ? 

I  have  asked  Louis.  He  is  not  quite  such  an 
ass  as  I  have  hitherto  supposed.  He  remembers 
the  date  of  the  event  within  a  day  or  two ;  and 
I  remember  the  name  of  the  person.  The  date 
was  either  the  fifth,  sixth,  or  seventh  of  July ; 
and  the  name  (in  my  opinion  a  remarkably  vul- 
gar one)  was  Fanny. 

On  the  fifth,  sixth,  or  seventh  of  July  I  was 
reclining,  in  my  usual  state,  surrounded  by  the 
various  objects  of  Art  which  I  have  collected 
about  me  to  improve  the  taste  of  the  barbarous 
people  in  my  neigliborhood.  That  is  to  say,  I 
had  the  photographs  of  my  pictures,  and  prints, 
and  coins,  and  so  forth,  all  about  me,  which  I 
intend,  one  of  these  days,  to  present  (the  pho- 
tographs, I  mean,  if  the  clumsy  English  lan- 
guage will  let  me  mean  any  thing) — to  present 
to  tire  Institute  at  Carlisle  (horrid  place  !),  with 
a  view  to  improving  the  tastes  of  the  Members 
(Goths  and  Vandals  to  a  man).  It  might  be 
supposed  that  a  gentleman  who  was  in  course  of 
conferring  a  great  national  benefit  on  his  coun- 
trymen was  tlie  last  gentleman  in  the  world  to 
be  unfeelingly  worried  about  private  difficulties 
and  family  affairs.  Quite  a  mistake,  I  assure 
you,  in  my  case. 

However,  there  I  was,  reclining,  with  my  art- 
treasures  about  me,  and  wanting  a  quiet  morn- 
ing. Because  I  wanted  a  quiet  morning,  of 
course  Louis  came  in.  It  was  perfectly  natural 
that  I  should  inquire  what  the  deuce  he  meant 


*  Tlie  maniipr  in  wliich  Mr.  Fairlie's  Narrative  and 
othfir  Narratives  tluit  are  sliortly  to  fullow  it,  were  orig- 
inally obtained,  fnrnistlu!snl).iiTtof  an  explanutiou  wliich 
will  appear  at  a  later  period  of  tlie  Story. 


by  making  his  appearance  when  I  had  not  rung 
my  bell.  I  seldom  swear — it  is  such  an  un- 
gentlemanlike  habit ;  but  when  Louis  answered 
by  a  grin,  I  think  it  was  also  perfectly  natural 
that  I  should  damn  him  for  grinning.  At  any 
rate  I  did. 

This  rigorous  mode  of  treatment,  I  have  ob- 
served, invariably  brings  persons  in  the  lower 
class  of  life  to  their  senses.  It  brought  Louis 
to  his  .senses^  He  was  so  obliging  as  to  leave 
off  grinning,  and  inform  me  that  a  Young  Per- 
son was  outside  wanting  to  see  me.  He  added 
(with  the  odious  talkativeness  of  servants)  that 
her  name  was  Fanny. 

"Who  is  Fanny?" 

"Lady  Glyde's  maid.  Sir." 

"What  does  Lady  Glyde's  maid  want  with 
me  ?" 

"A  letter,  Sir—" 

"Take  it." 

"  She  refuses  to  give  it  to  any  body  but  you, 
Sir." 

"Who  sends  the  letter?" 

'■  Miss  Halcombe,  Sir." 

The  moment  I  heard  Miss  Halcombe's  name 
I  gave  up.  It  is  a  habit  of  mine  always  to  give 
np  to  Rliss  Halcombe.  I  find,  by  experience, 
that  it  saves  noise.  I  gave  up  on  this  occasion. 
Dear  Marian ! 

"Let  Lady  Glyde's  maid  come  in,  Louis. 
Stop !     Do  her  shoes  creak  ?" 

I  was  obliged  to  ask  the  question.  Creaking 
shoes  invariably  upset  me  for  the  day.  I  was 
resigned  to  see  the  Young  Person,  but  I  was  }iot 
resigned  to  let  the  Young  Person's  shoes  upset 
me.     There  is  a  limit  even  to  my  endurance. 

Louis  affirmed  distinctly  that  her  shoes  were 
to  be  depended  upon.  I  wa\'ed  my  hand.  He 
introduced  her.  Is  it  necessary  to  say  that  she 
expressed  her  sense  of  embarrassment  by  shut- 
ting up  her  mouth  and  breathing  through  her 
nose  ?  To  the  student  of  female  human  nature 
in  the  lower  orders,  surely  not. 

Let  me  do  the  girl  justice.  Her  shoes  did 
not  creak.  But  why  do  Young  Persons  in  serv- 
ice all  ])erspire  at  the  hands?  Why  have  they 
all  got  fat  noses  and  hard  cheeks  ?  And  why 
are  their  faces  so  sadly  unfinished,  especially 
about  the  corners  of  the  eyelids?  I  am  not 
strong  enough  to  think  deeply  myself  on  any 
subject,  but  I  ajipeal  to  jirofessional  men  who 
are.  Why  have  we  no  variety  in  our  breed  of 
Young  Persons  ? 

"  Yon  have  a  letter  for  me  from  Miss  Hal- 
combe?    Put  it  down  on  the  table,  please,  and 
don't  upset  any  thing.    How  is  Miss  Halcombe  ?" 
"Very  well,  thank  vou.  Sir." 

"And  Lady  Glyde?" 

I  received  no  answer.  The  Young  Person's 
face  became  more  unfinished  than  ever,  and  I 
think  she  began  to  cry.  I  certainly  saw  some- 
thing moist  about  her  eyes.  Tears  or  perspira- 
tion V  Louis  (whom  I  have  just  consulted)  is  in- 
clined to  think  tears.  He  is  in  her  class  of  life, 
and  he  ought  to  know  best.     Let  us  say  tears. 

Excejit  when  the  refining  process  of  Art  ju- 
diciously removes  from  them  all  resemblance  to 
Natiu-e,"l  distinctly  object  to  tears.  Tears  are 
scicntitically  described  as  a  Secretion.  I  can 
undcrstaiultbiit  a  secretion  may  be  healthy  or 
unhealthy,  but  I  can  not  see  the  interest  of  a 
secretion  from  a  sentimental  point  of  view.    Per- 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


143 


h.ips,  my  own  secretions  being  all  wrong  togeth- 
er, 1  am  a  little  prejudiced  on  the  subject.  No 
matter.  I  behaved  on  this  occasion  with  all 
possible  propriety  and  feeling.  I  closed  my  eyes, 
and  said  to  Louis, 

"Endeavor  to  ascertain  what  she  means." 

Louis  endeavored,  and  the  Young  Person  en- 
deavored. They  succeeded  in  contusing  each 
other  to  such  an  extent  that,  I  am  bound  in 
common  gratitude  to  say,  they  really  amused 
me.'  I  think  I  shall  send  for  them  again  when 
I  am  in  low  spirits.  I  have  just  mentioned  this 
idea  to  Louis.  Strange  to  say,  it  seems  to  make 
him  uncomfortable.     Poor  devil ! 

Surely  I  am  not  expected  to  repeat  my  niece's 
maid's  exjilanation  of  her  tears,  interpreted  in 
the  English  of  my  Swiss  valet  ?  The  thing  is 
manifestly  impossible.  I  can  give  my  own  im- 
pressions and  feelings,  perhaps.  Will  that  do 
as  well?     Please  say.  Yes. 

My  idea  is  that  she  began  by  telling  me 
(through  Louis)  that  her  master  had  dismissed 
her  from  her  mistress's  service.  (Observe, 
throughout,  the  strange  irrelevancy  of  the 
Young  Person.  Was  it  my  fault  that  she  had 
lost  her  place  ?)  On  her  dismissal  she  had  gone 
to  the  inn  to  sleep,  (/don't  keep  the  inn  ;  why 
mention  it  to  me?)  Between  six  o'clock  and 
seven  Miss  Halcombe  had  come  to  say  good-by, 
and  had  given  her  two  letters :  one  for  me  and 
one  for  a  gentleman  in  London.  (/  am  not  a 
gentleman  in  London — hang  the  gentleman  in 
London !)  She  had  carefully  put  the  two  let- 
ters into  her  bosom  (what  have  I  to  do  with  her 
bosom?);  she  had  been  very  unhappy  when 
Miss  Halcombe  had  gone  away  again ;  she  had 
not  had  the  heart  to  put  bit  or  drop  between  her 
lips  till  it  was  near  bedtime ;  and  then,  when  it 
was  close  on  nine  o'clock,  she  had  thought  she 
should  like  a  cup  of  tea.  (Am  I  responsible  for 
any  of  these  vulgar  fluctuations,  which  begin 
with  unhappiness  and  end  with  tea?)  Just  as 
she  was  icanning  the  pot  (I  give  the  words  on 
the  authority  of  Louis,  who  says  he  knows  what 
they  mean,  and  wishes  to  explain ;  but  I  snub 
him  on  principle) — just  as  she  was  warming  the 
pot  the  door  opened,  and  she  was  struck  of  a 
heap  (her  own  words  again,  and  perfectly  unin- 
telligible this  time  to  Louis  as  well  as  to  my- 
self) by  the  appearance  in  the  inn  parlor  of 
her  ladyship,  the  Countess.  I  give  my  niece's 
maid's  description  of  my  sister's  title  with  a 
sense  of  the  highest  relish.  My  poor  dear  sis- 
ter is  a  tiresome  woman  who  married  a  foreign- 
er. To  resume :  the  door  opened,  her  ladyship, 
the  Countess,  appeared  in  the  parlor,  and  the 
Young  Person  was  struck  of  a  heap.  Most  re- 
markable ! 

I  must  really  rest  a  little  before  I  can  get  on 
any  farther.  When  I  have  reclined  for  a  few 
minutes,  with  my  eyes  closed,  and  when  Louis 
has  refreshed  my  poor  aching  temples  with  a 
little  eau  de  Cologne,  I  may  be  able  to  proceed. 

Her  ladyship,  the  Countess — 

No.  I  am  able  to  proceed,  but  not  to  sit  up. 
I  will  recline,  and  dictate.  Louis  has  a  horrid 
accent,  but  he  knows  the  language  and  can  write. 
How  very  convenient ! 

Her  ladyship,  the  Countess,  explained  her  un- 
expected appearance  at  the  inn  by  telling  Fan- 


ny that  she  had  come  to  bring  one  or  two  little 
messages  which  Miss  Halcombe  in  her  hurry 
had  forgotten.  The  Young  Person  thereupon 
waited  anxiously  to  hear  what  the  messages 
were ;  but  the  Countess  seemed  disinclined  to 
mention  them  (so  like  my  sister's  tiresome  way !) 
until  Fanny  had  had  her  tea.  Her  ladyship 
was  surprisingly  kind  and  thoughtful  about  it 
(extremely  unlike  my  sister),  and  said,  "I  am 
sure,  my  poor  girl,  yon  must  want  your  tea.  We 
can  let  the  messages  wait  till  afterward.  Come, 
come,  if  nothing  else  will  put  you  at  your  ease, 
Pll  make  the  tea  and  have  a  cup  with  you."  I 
think  those  were  the  words,  as  re])orted  excitably 
in  my  presence  by  the  Young  Person.  At  any 
rate,  the  Countess  insisted  on  making  the  tea, 
and  carried  her  ridiculous  ostentation  of  humil- 
ity so  far  as  to  take  one  cup  herself  and  to  in- 
sist on  the  girl's  taking  the  other.  The  girl 
drank  the  tea,  and,  according  to  her  own  ac- 
count, solemnized  the  extraordinary  occasion 
five  minutes  afterward  by  fainting  dead  away 
for  the  first  time  in  her  life.  Here,  again,  I  use 
her  own  words.  Louis  thinks  they  were  accom- 
panied by  an  increased  secretion  of  tears.  I 
can't  say  myself.  The  effort  of  listening  being 
quite  as  much  as  I  could  manage,  my  eyes  were 
closed. 

Where  did  I  leave  off?  Ah,  yes,  she  fainted 
after  drinking  a  cup  of  tea  with  the  Countess ; 
a  jiroceeding  which  might  have  interested  me 
if  I  had  been  her  medical  man,  but  being  no- 
thing of  the  sort,  I  felt  bored  by  hearing  of  it, 
nothing  more.  When  she  came  to  herself,  in 
half  an  hour's  time,  she  was  on  the  sofa,  and 
nobody  was  with  her  but  the  landlady.  The 
Countess,  finding  it  too  late  to  remain  any  lon- 
ger at  the  inn,  had  gone  away  as  soon  as  the 
girl  showed  signs  of  recovering,  and  the  land- 
lady had  been  good  enough  to  help  her  up  stairs 
to  bed.  Left  by  herself,  she  had  felt  in  her  bo- 
som (I  regret  the  necessity  of  referring  to  this 
part  of  the  subject  a  second  time),  and  had  found 
the  two  letters  there  quite  safe,  but  very  much 
crumpled.  She  had  been  giddy  in  the  night, 
but  had  got  up  well  enough  to  travel  in  the 
morning.  She  had  put  the  letter  addressed  to 
that  obtrusive  stranger,  the  gentleman  in  Lon- 
don, into  the  post,  and  had  now  delivered  the 
other  letter  into  my  hands,  as  she  was  told. 
This  was  the  plain  truth  ;  and  though  she  could 
not  blame  herself  for  any  intentional  neglect, 
she  was  sadly  troubled  in  her  mind,  and  sadly 
in  want  of  a  word  of  advice.  At  this  point 
Louis  thinks  the  secretions  appeared  again. 
Perhajjs  they  did ;  but  it  is  of  infinitely  greater 
importance  to  mention  that,  at  this  point  also, 
I  lost  my  patience,  opened  my  eyes,  and  inter- 
fered. 

"  What  is  the  purport  of  all  this  ?"  I  inquired. 

My  niece's  irrelevant  maid  stared,  and  stood 
speechless. 

"Endeavor  to  explain,"  I  said  to  my  servant. 
"Translate  me,  Louis." 

Louis  endeavored,  and  translated.  In  other 
words,  he  descended  immediately  into  a  bot- 
tomless pit  of  confusion,  and  the  Young  Person 
followed  him  down.  I  really  don't  know  when 
I  have  been  so  amused.  I  left  them  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  pit  as  long  as  they  diverted  me. 
When  they  ceased  to  divert  me,  I  exerted  my 
intelligence  and  pulled  them  up  again. 


144 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


It  is  unnecessaiy  to  say  that  my  interference 
enabled  me,  in  clue  course  of  time,  to  ascertain 
the  purport  of  the  Young  Person's  remarks.  I 
discovered  that  she  was  uneasy  in  her  mind,  be- 
cause the  train  of  events  that  she  had  just  de- 
scribed to  me  had  prevented  her  from  receiving 
those  supplementary  messages  which  Miss  Hal- 
combe  had  intrusted  to  the  Countess  to  deliver. 
She  was  afraid  the  messages  might  have  been 
(if  great  importance  to  her  mistress's  interests. 
Her  dread  of  Sir  Percival  had  deterred  her  from 
going  to  Blackwater  Park  late  at  night  to  in- 
quire about  them;  and  Miss  Halcombe's  own 
directions  to  her,  on  no  account  to  miss  the 
train  in  the  morning,  had  prevented  her  from 
waiting  at  the  inn  the  next  day.  She  was  most 
anxious  that  the  misfortune  of  her  fainting-fit 
should  not  lead  to  the  second  misfortune  of 
making  her  mistress  think  her  neglectful,  and 
she  would  humbly  beg  to  ask  me  whether  I 
would  advise  her  to  write  her  explanations  and 
excuses  to  Miss  Halcombe,  requesting  to  receive 
tlie  messages  by  letter,  if  it  was  not  too  late.  I 
made  no  apologies  for  this  extremely  prosy  par- 
agraph. I  have  been  ordered  to  write  it.  There 
are  peojile,  unaccountable  as  it  may  appear,  who 
actually  take  more  interest  in  what  my  niece's 
maid  said  to  me  on  this  occasion  than  in  what  I 
said  to  my  niece's  maid.     Amusing  perversity! 

"I  should  feel  very  much  obliged  to  you,  Sir, 
if  you  would  kindly  tell  me  what  I  had  better 
do, "  remarked  the  Young  Person. 

"Let  things  stop  as  they  are,"  I  said,  adapt- 
ing my  language  to  my  listener,  "/invaria- 
bly let  things  stop  as  they  are.  Yes.  Is  that 
all?" 

"  If  you  think  it  would  be  a  liberty  in  me. 
Sir,  to  write,  of  course  I  wouldn't  venture  to  do 
so.  But  I  am  so  very  anxious  to  do  all  I  can 
to  serve  my  mistress  faithfully — " 

People  in  the  lower  class  of  life  never  know 
when  or  how  to  go  out  of  a  room.  They  in- 
variably require  to  be  helped  out  by  their  bet- 
ters. I  thought  it  high  time  to  help  the  Young 
Person  out.    I  did  it  with  two  judicious  words: 

"Good  morning!" 

Something  outside  or  inside  this  singular 
girl  suddenly  creaked ;  Louis,  wlio  was  looking 
at  her  (which  I  was  not),  says  she  creaked  when 
she  courtesied.  Curious.  Was  it  her  shoes,  her 
stays,  or  her  bones  ?  Louis  thinks  it  was  her 
stays.     Most  extraordinary ! 

As  soon  as  I  was  left  by  myself  I  had  a  little 
nap — I  really  wanted  it.  When  I  awoke  again 
I  noticed  dear  Marian's  letter.  If  I  had  had  the 
least  idea  of  what  it  contained  I  should  certain- 
ly not  have  attempted  to  open  it.  Being,  unfor- 
tunately for  myself,  quite  innocent  of  all  suspi- 
cion, I  read  the  letter.  It  immediately  upset 
rae  for  the  day. 

I  am  by  nature  one  of  the  most  easy-tempered 
creatures  that  ever  lived — I  make  allowances  for 
every  body,  and  I  take  offense  at  nothing.  But, 
as  I  have  before  remarked,  there  are  limits  to 
my  endurance.  I  laid  down  Marian's  letter, 
and  felt  myself — justly  felt  myself — an  injured 
man. 

I  am  about  to  make  a  remark.  It  is,  of 
course,  applicable  to  the  very  serious  matter 
now  under  notice,  or  I  should  not  allow  it  to 
appear  in  this  place. 

Nothing,  in  my  opinion,  sets  the  odious  self- 


ishness of  mankind  in  such  a  repulsively  vivid 
light  as  the  treatment,  in  all  classes  of  society, 
which  the  Single  people  receive  at  the  hands 
of  the  Married  people.  When  you  have  once 
shown  yourself  too  considerate  and  self-denying 
to  add  a  family  of  your  own  to  an  already  over- 
crowded population,  you  are  vindictively  marked 
out  by  your  married  friends,  who  have  no  sim- 
ilar consideration  and  no  similar  self-denial,  as 
the  recipient  of  half  their  conjugal  troubles  and 
the  born  friend  of  all  their  children.  Husbands 
and  wives  talk  of  the  cares  of  matrimony,  and 
bachelors  and  spinsters  hear  them.  Take  my 
own  case.  I  considerately  remain  single,  and 
my  poor  dear  brother  Philip  inconsiderately 
marries.  What  docs  he  do  when  he  dies?  He 
leaves  his  daugliter  to  me.  She  is  a  sweet  girl. 
She  is  also  a  dreadful  responsibility.  Why  lay 
her  on  my  shoulders  ?  Because  I  am  bound,  in 
the  harmless  character  of  a  single  man,  to  re- 
lieve my  married  connections  of  all  their  own 
troubles.  I  do  my  best  with  my  brother's  re- 
sponsibility ;  I  marry  my  niece,  with  infinite 
fuss  and  difficulty,  to  the  man  her  fatlicr  wanted 
her  to  marry.  She  and  her  husband  disagree, 
and  un])leasant  consequences  follow.  What 
does  she  do  with  those  consequences?  She 
transfers  them  to  mc.  Wliy  transfer  tliem  to 
me  ?  Because  I  am  bound,  in  the  harmless 
character  of  a  single  man,  to  relieve  my  mar- 
ried connections  of  all  their  own  troubles.  Poor 
single  people  !     Poor  human  nature  ! 

it  is  quite  iinnccessary  to  say  that  Marian's 
letter  threatened  mc.    Evcrv  bodv  threatens  me. 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


145 


All  sorts  of  liorrors  were  to  fall  on  my  devoted 
head  if  I  hesitated  to  turn  Limmeridse  House 
into  an  asylum  for  my  niece  and  her  misfor- 
tunes.    I  did  hesitate,  nevertheless. 

I  have  mentioned  that  my  usual  course  hith- 
erto had  been  to  submit  to  dear  Marian,  and 
save  noise.  But  on  this  occasion  the  conse- 
quences involved  in  her  extremely  inconsiderate 
proposal  were  of  a  nature  to  make  me  pause. 
If  I  opened  Limmeridge  House  as  an  asylum  to 
Lady  Glyde,  what  security  had  I  against  Sir 
Percival  Glyde's  following  her  here,  in  a  state 
of  violent  resentment  against  me  for  harboring 
his  wife?  I  saw  such  a  perfect  labyrinth  of 
troubles  involved  in  this  proceeding  that  I  de- 
termined to  feel  my  ground,  as  it  were.  I  wrote, 
therefore,  to  dear  Marian,  to  beg  (as  she  had 
no  husband  to  lay  claim  to  her)  that  she  would 
come  here  by  herself  first  and  talk  the  matter 
over  with  me.  If  she  could  answer  my  objec- 
tions to  my  own  perfect  satisfaction,  then  I  as- 
sured her  that  I  would  receive  our  sweet  Laura 
with  the  greatest  jileasure — but  not  othei-wise. 
I  felt,  of  course,  at  the  time,  that  this  temporiz- 
ing on  my  part  would  probably  end  in  bringing 
Marian  here  in  a  state  of  virtuous  indignation, 
banging  doors.  But  then  the  other  course  of 
proceeding  might  end  in  bringing  Sir  Percival 
here  in  a  state  of  virtuous  indignation,  bang- 
ing doors  also ;  and  of  the  two  indignations  and 
hangings  I  preferred  Marian's,  because  I  Avas 
used  to  her.  Accordingly  I  dispatched  the  let- 
ter by  return  of  post.  It  gained  me  time,  at 
all  events — and,  oh  dear  me !  what  a  point  that 
was  to  begin  with. 

When  i  am  totally  prostrated  (did  I  mention 
that  I  was  totally  prostrated  by  Marian's  letter?) 
it  always  takes  me  three  days  to  get  up  again. 
I  was  very  unreasonable — I  expected  three  days 
of  quiet.     Of  course  I  didn't  get  them. 

The  third  day's  post  brought  me  a  most  im- 
pertinent letter  from  a  person  with  whom  I  was 
totally  unacquainted.  He  described  himself  as 
the  acting  partner  of  our  man  of  business — our 
dear,  pig-headed  old  Gilmore — and  he  informed 
me  that  he  had  lately  received,  by  the  post,  a 
letter  addressed  to  him  in  Miss  Halcombe's  hand- 
writing. On  opening  the  envelope,  he  had  dis- 
covered, to  his  astonishment,  that  it  contained 
nothing  but  a  blank  sheet  of  note  paper.  This 
circumstance  appeared  to  him  so  suspicious  (as 
suggesting  to  his  restless  legal  mind  that  the  let- 
ter had  been  tampered  with)  that  he  had  at  once 
written  to  Miss  Ilalcombe,  and  he  had  received 
no  answer  by  return  of  post.  In  this  difficulty, 
instead  of  acting  like  a  sensible  man  and  letting 
things  take  their  course,  his  next  absurd  pro- 
ceeding, on  his  own  showing,  was  to  pester  vie, 
by  writing  to  inquire  if  I  knew  any  thing  about 
it.  What  the  deuce  should  I  know  about  it? 
Why  alarm  me  as  well  as  himself?  I  wrote  back 
to  that  eifect.  It  was  one  of  my  keenest  letters. 
I  have  produced  nothing  with  a  sharper  episto- 
lary edge  to  it  since  I  tended  his  dismissal  in 
writing  to  that  extremely  troublesome  person, 
Mr.  Walter  Hartright. 

My  letter  produced  its  effect.  I  heard  nothing 
more  from  the  lawyer.  This,  perhaps,  was  not 
altogether'  surprising.  But  it  was  certainly  a 
remarkable  circumstance  that  no  second  letter 
reached  me  from  Marian,  and  that  no  warning 
signs  appeared  of  her  arrival.  Her  unexpected 
K 


absence  did  me  amazing  good.  It  was  so  very 
soothing  and  pleasant  to  infer  (as  I  did  of  course) 
that  my  married  connections  had  made  it  up 
again.  Five  days  of  undisturbed  tranquillity, 
of  delicious  single  blessedness,  quite  restored 
me.  On  the  sixth  day — either  the  fifteenth  or 
sixteenth  of  July,  as  I  imagine — I  felt  strong 
enough  to  send  for  my  photographer,  and  to  set 
him  at  work  again  on  the  presentation  copies 
of  my  art-treasures,  with  a  view,  as  I  have  al- 
ready mentioned,  to  the  improvement  of  taste 
in  this  barbarous  neighborhood.  I  had  just 
dismissed  him  to  his  work-shop,  and  had  just 
begun  coquetting  with  my  coins,  when  Louis 
suddenly  made  his  appearance  with  a  card  in 
his  hand. 

"  Another  Young  Person  ?"  I  said.  "I  won't 
see  her.  In  my  state  of  health  Young  Persons 
disagree  with  me.     Not  at  home." 

"  It  is  a  gentleman  this  time.  Sir." 

A  gentleman,  of  course,  made  a  difference.  I 
looked  at  the  card. 

Gracious  Heaven  !  my  tiresome  sister's  foreign 
husband.     Count  Fosco ! 

Is  it  necessary  to  say  what  my  first  impres- 
sion was  when  I  looked  at  my  visitor's  card? 
Surely  not.  My  sister  having  married  a  for- 
eigner, there  was  but  one  impression  that  any 
nmn  in  his  senses  could  possibly  feel.  Of  course 
the  Count  had  come  to  borrow  money  of  me. 

"Louis,"  I  said,  "do  you  think  he  would  go 
away  if  you  gave  him  five  shillings  ?" 

Louis  looked  quite  shocked.  He  sui'prised 
me  inexpressibly  by  declaring  that  my  sister's 
foreign  husband  was  di-essed  superbly,  and 
looked  the  picture  of  prosperity.  Under  these 
circumstances,  my  first  impression  altered  to  a 
certain  extent.  I  now  took  it  for  granted  that 
the  Count  had  matrimonial  difficulties  of  his 
own  to  contend  with,  and  that  he  had  come, 
like  the  rest  of  the  family,  to  cast  them  all  on 
my  shoulders. 

"Did  he  mention  his  business?"  I  asked. 

"  Count  Fosco  said  he  had  come  here,  Sir, 
because  Miss  Halcombe  was  unable  to  leave 
Blackwater  Park." 

Fresh  troubles,  apparently.  Not  exactly  his 
own,  as  I  had  sujiposed,  but  dear  Marian's.  It 
made  very  little  ditference.  Troubles,  anyway. 
Oh  dear ! 

"  Show  him  in,"  I  said,  resignedly. 

The  Count's  first  appearance  really  startled 
me.  He  was  such  an  alarmingly  large  person, 
that  I  quite  trembled.  I  felt  certain  that  he 
would  shake  the  floor,  and  knock  down  my  art- 
treasures.  He  did  neither  the  one  nor  the  oth- 
er. He  was  refreshingly  dressed  in  summer 
costume ;  his  manner  was  delightfully  self-pos- 
sessed and  quiet — he  had  a  charming  smile. 
My  first  impression  of  him  was  highly  favorable. 
It  is  not  creditable  to  my  penetration — as  the 
sequel  will  show — to  acknowledge  this ;  but  I 
am  a  naturally  candid  man,  and  I  do  acknowl- 
edge it,  notwithstanding. 

"Allow  me  to  present  myself,  Mr.  Fairlie," 
he  said.  "I  come  from  Blackwater  Park,  and 
I  have  the  honor  and  the  happiness  of  being 
Madame  Fosco's  husband.  Let  me  take  my 
first  and  last  advantage  of  that  circumstance  by 
entreating  you  not  to  make  a  stranger  of  me. 
I  beg  you  will  not  disturb  yourself — I  beg  yon 
will  not  move." 


146 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


I    BEG    YOU    WILL    NOT    DISTURB    YOURSELF 1   BEG    YOU    WILL   NOT   MOVE. 


"Yoa  are  very  good,"  I  replied.  "I  wish  I 
was  strong  enough  to  get  up.  Charmed  to  see 
you  at  Limmeridge.     Please  take  a  chair." 

"  I  am  afraid  you  are  suffering  to-day,"  said 
the  Count. 

"As  usual,"  I  said.  "I  am  nothing  but  a 
bundle  of  nerves  dressed  up  to  look  like  a  man." 

"I  have  studied  many  subjects  in  my  time," 
remarked  this  sympallietic  person.  "Among 
otliers,  the  inexhaustible  subject  of  nerves. 
May  I  make  a  suggestion,  at  once  tlie  simplest 
and  the  most  profound?  Will  you  let  me  alter 
the  liijlit  in  your  room  ?" 

"  Certainly — if  you  will  be  so  vei7  kind  as  not 
to  let  any  of  it  in  on  me." 

He  walked  to  the  window.  Such  a  contrast 
to  dear  Marian  !  so  extremely  considerate  in  all 
his  movements ! 

"Light,"  lie  said,  in  that  delightfully  confi- 
dential tone  which  is  so  soothing  to  an  invalid, 
"is  the  first  essential.  Light  stimulates,  nour- 
ishes, preserves.  You  can  no  more  do  without 
it,  Mr.  Fairlie,  tlian  if  you  were  a  flower.  Ob- 
serve. Here,  where  you  sit,  I  close  the  shut- 
ters to  com])Osc  you.  Tlicrc,  where  you  do  not 
sit,  I  draw  up  the  blind  and  let  in  the  invigora- 
ting sun.  Admit  the  light  into  your  room,  if 
you  can  not  bear  it  on  yourself     Light,  Sir,  is 


the  grand  decree  of  Providence.  You  accept 
Providence  with  your  own  restrictions.  Accejii 
Light  on  tlie  same  terms." 

I  thought  this  very  convincing  and  attentive. 
He  had  taken  me  in — up  to  that  point  about  the 
light  he  had  certainly  taken  me  in. 

"You  see  me  confused,"  he  said,  returning 
to  his  place — "  on  my  word  of  honor,  Mr.  Fair- 
lie,  you  see  me  confused  in  your  ]3resence." 

"  Shocked  to  hear  it,  I  am  sure.  May  I  in- 
quire why?" 

"  Sir,  can  I  enter  this  room  (where  j-ou  sit  a 
sufferer),  and  see  you  surrounded  by  these  ad- 
mirable objects  of  Art,  without  discovering  that 
you  are  a  man  whose  feelings  are  acutely  im- 
pressionable, whose  sympatliies  are  perpetually 
alive?     Tell  me,  can  I  do  this?" 

If  I  had  been  strong  enough  to  sit  up  in  my 
chair  I  should  of  course  have  bowed.  Not  being 
strong  enough,  I  smiled  my  acknowledgments 
instead.  It  did  just  as  well ;  we  both  under- 
stood one  another. 

"Pray,  follo\v  my  train  of  thought,"  contin- 
ued the  Count.  "I  sit  here,  a  man  of  refined 
:  sympatliies  myself,  in  the  jircsence  of  another 
man  of  refined  symjiathies  also.  I  am  conscious 
of  a  terrible  necessity  for  Incerating  those  sym- 
pathies, by  referring  to  domestic  events  of  a 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


147 


Tcry  melancholy  kind.  What  is  the  inevitable 
consequence  ?  I  have  clone  myself  the  honor  of 
pointing  it  out  to  you  already.    I  sit  confused." 

Was  it  at  this  point  that  I  began  to  suspect  he 
was  Roing  to  bore  me?     I  rather  think  it  was. 

"Is  it  absolutely  necessary  to  refer  to  these 
unpleasant  matters?"  I  inquired.  "In  our 
homely  English  phrase,  Count  Fosco,  won't  they 
keep?" 

The  Count,  with  the  most  alarming  solemni- 
ty, sighed  and  shook  his  bead. 

"  Must  I  really  bear  them?" 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  (it  was  the  first 
foreign  thing  he  had  done  since  he  had  been  in 
the  room),  and  looked  at  me  in  an  unpleasantly 
penetrating  manner.  My  instincts  told  me  that 
I  had  better  close  my  eyes.  I  obeyed  my  in- 
stincts. 

"Please,  break  it  gently,"  I  pleaded.  "Any 
body  dead?" 

"  Dead !"  cried  the  Count,  with  unnecessary 
foreign  fierceness.  "  Mr.  Fairlie  !  your  national 
composure  terrifies  me.  In  the  name  of  Heav- 
en, what  have  I  said  or  done  to  make  you  think 
me  the  messenger  of  death  ?" 

"Pray  accept  my  ajjologies,"  I  answered. 
"You  have  said  and  done  nothing.  I  make  it 
a  rule,  in  these  distressing  cases,  always  to 
antici])ate  the  worst.  It  breaks  the  blow  by 
meeting  it  half-way,  and  so  on.  Inexpressibly 
relieved,  I  am  sure,  to  hear  that  nobody  is  dead. 
Any  body  ill  ?" 

I  opened  my  eyes  and  looked  at  him.  Was 
he  very  yellow  when  he  came  in?  or  had  he 
turned  very  yellow  in  the  last  minute  or  two? 
I  really  can't  say ;  and  I  can't  ask  Louis,  be- 
cause he  was  not  in  the  room  at  the  time. 

"Any  body  ill?"  I  repeated;  observing  that 
my  national  composure  still  appeared  to  aflect 
him. 

"  That  is  part  of  my  bad  news,  Mr.  Fairlie. 
Yes.     Somebody  is  ill." 

"  Grieved,  I  am  sure.    Which  of  them  is  it?" 

"To  my  profound  sorrow.  Miss  Halcombe. 
Perhaps  you  were  in  some  degree  prepared  to 
hear  this?  Perhaps,  when  you  found  that  Miss 
Halcombe  did  not  come  here  by  herself,  as  you 
proposed,  and  did  not  write  a  second  time,  your 
affectionate  anxiety  may  have  made  you  fear 
that  she  was  ill?" 

I  have  no  doubt  my  affectionate  anxiety  had 
led  to  that  melancholy  apprehension,  at  some 
time  or  other ;  but,  at  the  moment,  my  wretch- 
ed memory  entirely  failed  to  remind  me  of  the 
circumstance.  However,  I  said  Yes,  in  justice 
to  myself.  I  was  much  shocked.  It  was  so  very 
uncharacteristic  of  such  a  robust  person  as  dear 
Marian  to  be  ill,  that  I  could  only  suppose  she 
had  met  with  an  accident.  A  horse,  or  a  false 
step  on  the  stairs,  or  something  of  that  sort. 

" Is  it  serious?"  I  asked. 

"Serious  —  beyond  a  doubt,"  he  replied. 
"Dangerous — I  hope  and  trust  not.  Miss  Hal- 
combe unhappily  exposed  herself  to  be  wetted 
through  by  a  heavy  rain.  The  cold  that  follow- 
ed was  of  an  aggravated  kind  ;  and  it  has  now 
brought  with  it  the  worst  consequence — Fever." 

When  I  heard  the  word  Fever,  and  when  I 
remembered,  at  the  same  moment,  that  the  un- 
scrupulous person  who  was  now  addressing  me 
had  just  conic  from  Blackwater  Park,  I  thought 
I  should  have  fainted  on  the  spot. 


"  Good  God  !"  I  said.     "  Is  it  infectious  ?" 

"Not  at  present,"  he  answered,  witli  detesta- 
ble composure.  "  It  may  turn  to  infection  ;  but 
no  such  deplorable  comjilication  had  taken  place 
when  I  left  Blackwater  Park.  I  have  felt  the 
deepest  interest  in  the  case,  Mr.  Fairlie ;  I  have 
endeavored  to  assist  the  regular  medical  attend- 
ant in  watching  it — accept  my  personal  assur- 
ances of  the  uninfectious  nature  of  the  fever 
when  I  last  saw  it." 

Accept  his  assurances !  I  never  was  farther 
from  accepting  any  thing  in  my  life.  I  would 
not  have  believed  him  on  his  oath.  He  was  too 
yellow  to  be  believed.  He  looked  like  a  walk- 
ing-West-Indian-epidemic.  He  was  big  enough 
to  carry  typhus  by  the  ton,  and  to  dye  the  very 
carpet  he  walked  on  with  scarlet  fever.  In  cer- 
tain emergencies  my  mind  is  remarkably  soon 
made  up.  I  instantly  determined  to  get  rid  of 
him. 

"  You  will  kindly  excuse  an  invalid,"  I  said ; 
"but  long  conferences  of  any  kind  invariably 
upset  me.  May  I  beg  to  know  exactly  what  the 
object  is  to  which  I  am  indebted  for  the  honor 
of  your  visit?" 

I  fervently  hoped  that  this  remarkably  broad 
hint  would  throw  him  off  his  balance — confuse 
him — reduce  him  to  polite  apologies — in  short, 
get  him  out  of  the  room.  On  the  contrary,  it 
only  settled  him  in  his  chair.  He  became  ad- 
ditionally solemn  and  dignified  and  confiden- 
tial. He  held  up  two  of  his  horrid  fingers,  and 
gave  me  another  of  his  un])leasantly  penetrating 
looks.  What  was  I  to  do  ?  I  was  not  strong 
enough  to  quarrel  with  him.  Conceive  my  sit- 
uation, if  you  please.  Is  language  adequate  to 
describe  it?     I  think  not. 

"  The  objects  of  my  visit,"  he  went  on,  quite 
irrepressibly,  "are  numbered  on  my  fingers. 
They  are  two.  First,  I  come  to  bear  my  testi- 
mony, with  profound  sorrow,  to  the  lamentable 
disagreements  between  Sir  Percival  and  Lady 
Glyde.  I  am  Sir  Pcrcival's  oldest  friend  ;  I  am 
related  to  Lady  Glyde  by  marriage ;  I  am  an 
eye-witness  of  all  that  has  happened  at  Black- 
water  Park.  In  those  three  capacities  I  speak 
with  authority,  with  confidence,  with  honorable 
regret.  Sir!  I  inform  you,  as  the  head  of 
Lady  Glyde's  family,  that  Miss  Halcombe  has 
exaggerated  nothing  in  the  letter  that  she  wrote 
to  your  address.  I  affirm  that  the  remedy  which 
that  admirable  lady  has  projjosed  is  tlie  only 
remedy  that  will  spare  you  the  horrors  of  public 
scandal.  A  temporary  separation  between  hus- 
band and  wife  is  the  one  jieacealjle  solution  of 
this  difficulty.  Part  them  for  the  present ;  and 
when  all  causes  of  irritation  are  removed,  I,  who 
have  now  the  honor  of  addressing  you — I  will 
undertake  to  bring  Sir  Percival  to  reason.  Lady 
Glyde  is  innocent,  Lady  Glyde  is  injured ;  but 
— follow  my  thought  here ! — she  is,  on  that  very 
account  (I  say  it  with  shame),  the  cause  of  irri- 
tation while  she  remains  under  her  husband's 
roof.  No  other  house  can  receive  her  with  pro- 
priety but  yours.     I  invite  you  to  open  it !" 

Cool.  Here  was  a  matrimonial  hailstorm 
pouring  in  the  South  of  England,  and  I  was  in- 
vited, by  a  man  with  fever  in  every  fold  of  his 
coat,  to  come  out  from  the  North  of  England 
and  take  my  share  of  the  pelting.  I  tried  to 
put  the  point  forcibly,  just  as  I  have  put  it  here. 
The  Count  deliberatelv  lowered  one  of  his  horrid 


us 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


fingers,  kept  the  other  up,  and  went  on — I'ode 
over  me,  as  it  were,  without  even  the  common 
coachmanlike  attention  of  crying  "Hi!"  before 
lie  knocked  me  down. 

"Follow  my  thought  once  more,  if  j'ou  please," 
he  resumed.  "  My  first  object  you  have  heard. 
My  second  object  in  coming  to  this  house  is  to 
do  what  Miss  Halcombe's  illness  has  prevented 
her  from  doing  for  myself.  My  large  experi- 
ence is  consulted  on  all  difficult  matters  at 
Blackwater  Park  ;  and  my  friendly  advice  was 
requested  on  the  interesting  subject  of  your  letter 
to  Miss  Halcombe.  I  understood  at  once — for 
my  sympathies  are  your  sympathies — why  you 
wished  to  see  her  here  before  you  pledged  your- 
self to  inviting  Lady  Glydc.  You  are  most  right. 
Sir,  in  hesitating  to  receive  the  wife  until  you 
are  quite  certain  that  the  husband  will  not  exert 
his  authority  to  reclaim  her.  I  agree  to  that. 
I  also  agree  that  such  delicate  explanations  as 
this  difficulty  involves  are  not  explanations 
which  can  be  properly  disposed  of  by  writing 
only.  My  presence  here  (to  my  own  great  in- 
convenience) is  the  proof  that  I  speak  sincerely. 
As  for  the  ex])lanations  themselves,  I — Fosco — 
I  who  know  Sir  Percival  much  better  than  Miss 
Halcombe  knows  him,  affirm  to  you,  on  my 
honor  and  my  word,  that  he  will  not  come  near 
this  house,  or  attempt  to  communicate  with  this 
house,  while  his  wife  is  living  in  it.  His  affairs 
are  embarrassed.  Offer  him  his  freedom  by- 
means  of  the  absence  of  Lady  Clyde.  I  prom- 
ise you  he  will  take  his  freedom,  and  go  back 
to  the  Continent,  at  the  earliest  moment  when 
he  can  get  away.  Is  this  clear  to  3'ou  as  crys- 
tal ?  Yes,  it  is.  Have  you  questions  to  address 
to  me  ?  Be  it  so;  I  am  here  to  answer.  Ask, 
Mr.  Fairlie — oblige  me  by  asking  to  your  heart's 
content." 

He  had  said  so  much  already  in  spite  of  me, 
and  he  looked  so  dreadfully  capable  of  saying  a 
great  deal  more,  also  in  spite  of  me,  that  I  de- 
clined his  amiable  invitation  in  pure  self-de- 
fense. 

"Many  thanks,"  I  replied.  "I  am  sinking 
fast.  In  my  state  of  health  I  must  take  things 
for  granted.  Allow  me  to  do  so  on  this  occa- 
sion. We  quite  understand  each  other.  Yes. 
Much  obliged,  I  am  sure,  for  your  kind  inter- 
ference. If  I  ever  get  better,  and  ever  have  a 
second  opportunity  of  improving  our  acquaint- 
ance— " 

He  got  up.  I  thought  he  was  going.  No. 
More  talk ;  more  time  for  the  development  of 
infectious  influences — in  1111/  room,  too  ;  remem- 
ber that,  in  7iiy  room  ! 

"  One  moment  yet,"  he  said  ;  "one  moment, 
before  I  take  my  leave.  I  ask  permission,  at 
parting,  to  impress  on  you  an  urgent  necessity. 
It  is  this,  Sir  !  You  must  not  think  of  waiting 
till  Miss  Halcombe  recovers  before  you  receive 
Lady  Glyde.  Miss  Halcombe  has  the  attend- 
ance of  tlie  doctor,  of  tlie  housekeeper  at  Black- 
water  Park,  and  of  an  experienced  nurse  as  well 
— three  persons  for  whose  capacity  and  devotion 
I  answer  with  my  life.  I  tell  you  that.  I  tell 
you,  also,  that  the  anxiety  and  alarm  of  her  sis- 
ter's illness  has  already  atl'ected  the  health  and 
spirits  of  Lady  Glyde,  and  has  made  her  totally 
unfit  to  be  of  use  in  the  sick-room.  Her  posi- 
tion with  her  husband  grows  more  and  more  de- 
plorable and  dangerous  everv'  day.     If  you  leave 


her  any  longer  at  Blackwater  Park  you  do  no- 
thing whatever  to  hasten  her  sister's  recovery, 
and,  at  the  same  time,  you  risk  the  public  scan- 
dal, which  you,  and  I,  and  all  of  us,  are  bound, 
in  the  sacred  interests  of  the  Family,  to  avoid. 
With  all  my  soul  I  advise  you  to  remove  the 
serious  responsibility  of  delay  from  your  own 
shoulders  by  writing  to  Lady  Glyde  to  come 
here  at  once.  Do  your  affectionate,  your  hon- 
orable, your  inevitable  duty  ;  and,  whatever  hap- 
pens in  the  future,  no  one  can  lay  the  blame  on 
you.  I  speak  from  my  large  experience ;  I  offer 
my  friendly  advice.    Is  it  accepted — Yes,  or  No?" 

I  looked  at  him  • —  merely  looked  at  him  — 
with  my  sense  of  his  amazing  assurance,  and 
my  dawning  resolution  to  ring  for  Louis,  and 
have  him  shown  out  of  the  room,  expressed  in 
every  line  of  my  face.  It  is  perfectly  incredi- 
ble, but  quite  true,  that  my  face  did  not  appear 
to  produce  the  slightest  impression  on  him. 
Born  without  nerves  —  evidently  born  without 
nerves ! 

"You  hesitate?"  he  said.  "Mr.  Fairlie!  I 
understand  that  hesitation.  You  olject — see, 
Sir,  how  my  sympathies  look  straight  down  into 
your  thoughts  ! — you  object  that  Lady  Glyde  is 
not  in  health  and  not  in  spirits  to  take  the  long 
journey  from  Hampshire  to  this  place  by  her- 
self. Her  own  maid  is  removed  from  her,  as 
you  know ;  and  of  other  servants  fit  to  travel 
with  her  from  one  end  of  England  to  another 
there  are  none  at  Blackwater  Park.  You  ob- 
ject, again,  that  she  can  not  comfortably  stop 
and  rest  in  London  on  her  way  here,  because 
she  can  not  comfortably  go  alone  to  a  public  ho- 
tel where  she  is  a  total  stranger.  In  one  breath 
I  grant  both  objections — in  another  breath  I  re- 
move them.  I'ollow  me,  if  you  please,  for  the 
last  time.  It  was  my  intention,  when  I  return^ 
ed  to  England  with  Sir  Percival,  to  settle  my- 
self in  the  neighborhood  of  London.  That  pur- 
pose has  just  been  happily  accomplished.  1 
have  taken,  for  six  months,  a  little  furnished 
house,  in  the  quarter  called  St.  John's  Wood. 
Be  so  obliging  as  to  keep  this  fact  in  your  mind, 
and  observe  the  programme  I  now  propose. 
Lady  Glyde  travels  to  London  (a  short  journey) ; 
I  myself  meet  her  at  the  station  ;  I  take  her  to 
rest  and  sleep  at  my  house,  which  is  also  the 
house  of  her  aunt;  when  she  is  restored,  I  es- 
cort her  to  the  station  again  ;  she  travels  to  this 
place,  and  her  own  maid  (who  is  now  under 
your  roof)  receives  her  at  the  carriage  door. 
Here  is  comfort  consulted ;  here  are  the  inter- 
ests of  propriety  consulted  ;  here  is  your  own 
duty — duty  of  hospitality,  sympathy,  j)rotection, 
to  an  uTihajipy  lady  in  need  of  all  three  — 
smoothed  and  made  easy,  from  the  beginning 
to  the  end.  I  cordially  invite  you,  Sir,  to  sec- 
ond my  efforts  in  the  sacred  interests  of  the 
Family.  I  seriously  advise  you  to  write  by  my 
hands,  offering  the  hos])itality  of  your  house 
(and  heart),  and  the  hosjiitality  of  my  house 
(and  heart),  to  that  injured  and  unfortunate 
lady  whose  cause  I  jilcad  to-day." 

He  waved  his  horrid  hand  at  me ;  he  struck 
his  infectious  breast ;  he  addressed  me  orator- 
ically — as  if  I  was  laid  up  in  tiie  House  of  Com- 
mons. It  was  high  time  to  take  a  dcsiierate 
course  of  some  sort.  It  was  also  higli  time  to 
send  for  Louis,  and  adopt  the  jirecaution  of 
fumigating  the  room. 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


149 


In  tliis  trying  emergency  an  idea  occurred  to 
me — an  inestimable  idea,  which,  so  to  speak, 
killed  two  intrusive  birds  with  one  stone.  I  de- 
termined to  get  rid  of  the  Count's  tii'esome  elo- 
quence, and  of  Lady  Clyde's  tiresome  troubles, 
by  complying  with  this  odious  foreigner's  re- 
quest, and  writing  the  letter  at  once.  There 
was  not  the  least  danger  of  the  invitation  being 
accepted,  for  there  was  not  the  least  chance 
that  Laura  would  consent  to  leave  Blackwater 
Park  while  Marian  was  lying  there  ill.  How  this 
charmingly  convenient  obstacle  could  have  es- 
caped the  officious  penetration  of  the  Count  it 
was  impossible  to  conceive — but  it  had  escaped 
him.  My  dread  that  he  might  yet  discover  it, 
if  I  allowed  him  any  more  time  to  think,  stim- 
ulated me  to  such  an  amazing  degree  that  I 
struggled  into  a  sitting  position  ;  seized — really 
seized — the  writing  materials  by  my  side,  and 
produced  the  letter  as  rapidly  as  if  I  had  been  a 
common  clerk  in  an  office.  "  Dearest  Laura, — 
Please  come,  whenever  you  like.  Break  the 
journey  by  sleeping  in  London  at  your  aunt's 
house.  Grieved  to  hear  of  dear  Marian's  ill- 
ness. Ever  affectionately  yours."  I  handed 
these  lines,  at  arm's-length,  to  the  Count — I 
sank  back  into  my  chair — I  said,  "Excuse  me  ; 
I  am  entirely  prostrated ;  I  can  do  no  more. 
Will  you  rest  and  lunch  down  stairs?  Love  to 
all,  and  sympathy,  and  so  on.     G'ooc?-morning." 

He  made  another  speech — the  man  was  abso- 
lutely inexhaustible.  I  closed  my  eyes ;  I  en- 
deavored to  hear  as  little  as  possible.  In  spite 
of  my  endeavors  I  was  obliged  to  hear  a  great 
deal.  My  sister's  endless  husband  congratulated 
himself,  and  congratulated  me  on  the  result  of 
our  interview ;  he  mentioned  a  gi-eat  deal  more 
about  his  sympathies  and  mine  ;  he  deplored  my 
miserable  health  ;  he  offered  to  write  me  a  pre- 
scription ;  he  impressed  on  me  the  necessity  of 
not  forgetting  what  he  had  said  about  the  im- 
portance of  light ;  he  accepted  my  obliging  in- 
vitation to  rest  and  lunch  ;  he  recommended  me 
to  expect  Lady  Clyde  in  two  or  three  days'  time  ; 
lie  begged  my  permission  to  look  forward  to  our 
next  meeting,  instead  of  paining  himself  and 
paining  me  by  saying  farewell ;  he  added  a 
great  deal  more,  which  I  rejoice  to  think  I  did 
not  attend  to  at  the  time,  and  do  not  remember 
now.  I  heard  his  sympathetic  voice  traveling 
away  from  me  by  degrees  ;  but,  large  as  he  was, 
I  never  heard  1dm.  He  had  the  negative  mer- 
it of  being  absolutely  noiseless.  I  don't  know 
when  he  opened  the  door,  or  when  he  shut  it. 
I  ventured  to  make  use  of  my  eyes  again,  after 
an  interval  of  silence — and  he  was  gone. 

I  rang  for  Louis,  and  retired  to  my  bath- 
room. Tepid  water,  strengthened  with  aromat- 
ic vinegar  for  myself,  and  copious  fumigation  for 
my  study,  were  the  obvious  precautions  to  take ; 
and  of  course  1  adopted  them.  I  rejoice  to  say 
they  proved  successful.  I  enjoyed  my  custom- 
ary siesta.  I  awoke  moist  and  cool.  My  first 
inquiries  were  for  the  Count.  Had  we  really 
got  rid  of  him  ?  Yes — he  had  gone  away  by  the 
afternoon  train.  Had  he  lunched ;  and,  if  so, 
upon  what  ?  Entirely  upon  fruit-tart  and  cream. 
What  a  man  !     What  a  digestion  ! 

Am  I  expected  to  say  any  thing  more?     I 
believe  not.    I  believe  I  have  reached  the  limits 
The  shocking  circumstances 


assigned  to  me. 


which  happened  at  a  later  period  did  not,  I  am 
thankful  to  say,  happen  in  my  presence.  I  do 
beg  and  entreat  that  nobody  will  be  so  very  un- 
feeling as  to  lay  any  part  of  the  blame  of  those 
circumstances  on  me.  I  did  every  thing  for  the 
best.  I  am  not  answerable  for  a  deplorable 
calamity  whicli  it  was  quite  impossible  to  fore- 
see. I  am  shattered  by  it;  I  have  suffered 
under  it  as  nobody  else  has  suffered.  My  serv- 
ant, Louis  (who  is  really  attached  to  me,  in  his 
unintelligent  way),  thinks  I  shall  never  get  over 
it.  He  sees  me  dictating  at  this  moment,  with 
my  handkerchief  to  my  eyes.  I  wish  to  mention, 
in  justice  to  myself,  that  it  was  not  my  fault,  and 
that  I  am  quite  exhausted  and  heart-broken.  I 
can  say  no  more. 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  ELIZA  MICHEL- 
SON,  HOUSEKEEPER  AT  BLACKWA- 
TER PARK.  \ 

I  AM  asked  to  state  plainly  what  I  know  of  the 
progress  of  Miss  Halcombe's  illness,  and  of  the 
circumstances  under  which  Lady  Clyde  left 
Blackwater  Park  for  London. 

The  reason  given  for  making  this  demand  on 
me  is,  that  my  testimony  is  wanted  in  the  inter- 
ests of  truth.  As  the  widow  of  a  clergyman  of 
the  Church  of  England  (reduced  by  misfortune 
to  the  necessity  of  accepting  a  situation),  I  have 
been  taught  to  place  the  claims  of  truth  above 
all  other  considerations.  I  therefore  comjdy 
with  a  request  which  I  might  otherwise,  through 
reluctance  to  connect  myself  with  distressing 
family  affairs,  have  hesitated  to  grant. 

I  made  no  memorandum  at  the  time,  and  I 
can  not,  therefore,  be  sure  to  a  day  of  the  date ; 
but  I  believe  I  am  correct  in  stating  that  Miss 
Halcombe's  serious  illness  began  during  the  iirst 
week  in  July.  The  breakfast  hour  was  late  at 
Blackwater  Park  —  sometimes  as  late  as  ten, 
never  earlier  than  half  past  nine.  On  the  morn- 
ing to  which  I  am  now  referring,  Miss  Halcombe 
(who  was  usually  the  first  to  come  down)  did 
not  make  her  appearance  at  the  table.  After 
the  family  had  waited  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  the 
upper4iousemaid  was  sent  to  see  after  her,  and 
came  running  out  of  the  room  dreadfully  fright- 
ened. I  met  the  servant  on  the  stairs,  and  went 
at  once  to  Miss  Halcombe  to  see  what  was  the 
matter.  The  poor  lady  was  incapable  of  telling 
me.  She  was  walking  about  her  room  with  a 
pen  in  her  hand,  quite  light-headed,  in  a  state 
of  burning  fever. 

Lady  Clyde  (being  no  longer  in  Sir  Percival's 
service,  I  may,  without  impropriety,  mention  my 
former  mistress  by  her  name,  instead  of  calling 
her  My  Lady)  was  the  first  to  come  in  from  her 
own  bedroom.  She  was  so  dreadfully  alarmed 
and  distressed  that  she  was  quite  useless.  The 
Count  Fosco  and  his  lady,  who  came  up  stairs 
immediately  afterward,  were  both  most  service- 
able and  kind.  Her  ladj'ship  assisted  me  to  get 
Miss  Halcombe  to  her  bed.  His  lordship,  the 
Count,  remained  in  the  sitting-room,  and  hav- 
ing sent  for  my  medicine-chest,  made  a  mixture 
for  Miss  Halcombe,  and  a  cooling  lotion  to  be 
applied  to  her  head,  so  as  to  lose  no  time  before 
the  doctor  came.  We  applied  the  lotion,  but 
we  could  not  get  her  to  take  the  mixture.  Sir 
Percival  undertook  to  send  for  the  doctor.     He 


150 


THE  WOxMAN  IN  WHITE. 


dispatched  a  gi-oom  on  horseback  for  the  near- 
est medical  man,  Mr.  Dawson,  of  Oak  Lodge. 

Mr.  Dawson  arrived  in  less  than  an  hour's 
time.  He  was  a  respectable  elderly  man,  well 
known  all  round  the  country ;  and  we  were 
much  alarmed  when  we  found  that  he  consid- 
ered  the  case  to  be  a  very  serious  one.  His 
lordshij),  the  Count,  aifably  entered  into  conver- 
sation with  Mr.  Dawson,  and  gave  his  opinions 
with  a  judicious  freedom.  Mr.  Dawson,  not 
over-courteously,  inquired  if  his  lordship's  ad- 
vice was  the  advice  of  a  doctor;  and  being  in- 
formed that  it  was  the  advice  of  one  who  had 
studied  medicine,  nnprofessionally,  replied  that 
he  was  not  accustomed  to  consult  with  amateur 
physicians.  The  Count,  with  truly  Christian 
meekness  of  temper,  smiled,  and  left  the  room. 
Before  he  went  out  he  told  mc  that  he  might  be 
found,  in  case  he  was  wanted  in  the  course  of 
the  day,  at  the  boat-house  on  the  banks  of  the 
lake.  Why  he  should  have  gone  there  I  can  not 
say.  But  he  did  go  ;  remaining  away  the  whole 
day  till  seven  o'clock,  which  was  dinner-time. 
Perhaps  he  wished  to  set  the  example  of  keep- 
ing the  house  as  quiet  as  possible.  It  was  en- 
tirely in  his  character  to  do  so.  He  was  a  most 
considerate  nobleman. 

Miss  Halcombe  ))assed  a  very  bad  night,  the 
fever  coming  and  going,  and  getting  worse  to- 
ward the  morning  instead  of  better.  No  nurse 
fit  to  wait  on  her  being  to  be  found  in  the 
neighborhood,  her  ladyship  the  Countess  and 
myself  undertook  the  duty,  relieving  each  other. 
Lady  Glyde,  most  unwisely,  insisted  on  sitting 
up  with  us.  She  was  much  too  nervous  and  too 
delicate  in  health  to  bear  the  anxiety  of  Miss 
Halcombe's  illness  calmly.  She  only  did  her- 
self harm,  without  being  of  the  least  real  assist- 
ance. A  more  gentle  and  afi'ectionate  lady  never 
lived ;  but  she  cried  and  she  was  frightened — 
two  weaknesses  which  made  her  entirely  unfit 
to  be  present  in  a  sick-room. 

Sir  Percival  and  the  Count  came  in  the  morn- 
ing to  make  their  inquiries.  Sir  Percival  (from 
distress,  I  presume,  at  his  lady's  atHiction  and 
at  Miss  Halcombe's  illness)  appeared  much  con- 
fused and  unsettled  in  his  mind.  His  lordship 
testified,  on  the  contrary,  a  becoming  compos- 
ure and  interest.  He  had  his  straw-hat  in  one 
hand  and  his  book  in  the  other;  and  he  men- 
tioned to  Sir  Percival,  in  my  hearing,  that  he 
would  go  out  again  and  study  at  the  lake. 
"Let  us  keep  the  house  quiet,"  he  said.  "Let 
us  not  smoke  in-doors,  my  friend,  now  Miss 
Halcombe  is  ill.  You  go  your  waj',  and  I  will 
go  mine.  When  I  study  I  like  to  be  alone. 
Good-morning,  Mrs.  Michelson." 

Sir  Percival  was  not  civil  enough — perhaps  I 
ought  in  justice  to  say  not  composed  enough — 
to  take  leave  of  me  with  the  same  polite  atten- 
tion. The  only  person  in  the  house,  indeed,  who 
treated  me,  at  that  time  or  at  any  other,  on  the 
footing  of  a  lady  in  distressed  circumstances, 
was  the  Count.  He  had  the  manners  of  a  true 
nobleman ;  he  was  considerate  toward  every 
one.  Even  the  young  person  (Fanny  by  name) 
who  attended  on  Lady  Glyde  was  not  beneath 
his  notice.  When  she  was  sent  away  by  Sir 
Percival,  his  lordshi])  (showing  me  his  sweet  lit- 
tle birds  at  the  time)  was  most  kindly  anxious 
to  know  what  had  become  of  her,  where  she 
was  to  go  the  day  she  left  Jilackwatcr  I'ark,  and 


so  on.  It  is  in  such  little  delicate  attentions 
that  the  advantages  of  aristocratic  birth  always 
show  themselves.  I  make  no  ajjology  for  intro- 
ducing these  particulars  ;  they  are  brought  for- 
ward in  justice  to  his  lordshij),  whose  character, 
I  have  reason  to  know,  is  viewed  ratiier  harshly 
in  certain  quarters.  A  nobleman  who  can  re- 
si)ect  a  lady  in  distressed  circumWances,  and 
can  take  a  fatherly  interest  in  the  fortunes  of 
an  humble  servant  girl,  shows  princijiles  and 
feelings  of  too  high  an  order  to  be  lightly  called 
in  question.  I  advance  no  ojiinions — I  ofter 
facts  only.  My  endeavor  through  life  is  to  judge 
not,  that  I  be  not  judged.  One  of  my  beloved 
husband's  finest  sermons  was  on  that  text.  I 
read  it  constantly — in  my  own  copy  of  the  edi- 
tion printed  by  subscription  in  the  first  davs  of 
my  widowiiood — and  at  every  fresh  perusal  1 
derive  an  increase  of  spiritual  benefit  and  edi- 
fication. 

There  was  no  improvement  in  Miss  Halcombe, 
and  the  second  night  was  even  worse  than  the 
first.  Mr.  Dawson  was  constant  in  his  attend- 
ance. The  ])ractical  duties  of  nursing  were  still 
divided  between  the  Countess  and  myself;  Lady 
Glyde  persisting  in  sitting  up  with  us,  though 
we  both  entreated  her  to  take  some  rest.  "  My 
place  is  by  Marian's  bedside,"  was  her  only  an- 
swer. "  Whether  I  am  ill  or  well,  nothing  will 
induce  me  to  lose  sight  of  her." 

Toward  mid-day  I  went  down  stairs  to  attend 
to  some  of  my  regular  duties.  An  hour  after- 
ward, on  my  way  back  to  the  sick-room,  I  saw 
the  Count  (who  had  gone  out  again  early,  for 
the  third  time)  entering  the  hall,  to  all  appear- 
ance in  the  highest  good  spirits.  Sir  Percival 
at  the  same  moment  put  his  head  out  of  the 
library  door,  and  addressed  his  noble  friend,  with 
extreme  eagerness,  in  these  words : 

"Have  you  found  her?" 

His  lordshi])'s  large  face  became  dimpled  all 
over  with  placid  smiles  ;  but  he  made  no  reply 
in  Avords.  At  the  same  time  Sir  Percival  turn- 
ed his  head,  observed  that  I  was  apjiroaching 
the  stairs,  and  looked  at  me  in  the  most  rudely 
angry  manner  possible. 

"  Come  in  here  and  tell  me  about  it,"  he  said, 
to  the  Count.  "  Whenever  there  are  women  in 
a  house  they're  always  sure  to  be  going  up  or 
down  stairs." 

"My  dear  Percival,"  observed  his  lordship, 
kindly,  ''Mrs.  Michelson  has  duties.  Pray  rec- 
ognize her  admirable  ])erformance  of  them  as 
sincerely  as  I  do!  How  is  the  sufierer,  Mrs. 
Michelson  ?" 

"No  belter,  my  lord,  I  regret  to  say." 

"Sad — most  sad !"  remarked  the  Count.  "You 
look  fatigued,  Mrs.  Michelson.  It  is  certainly 
time  you  and  my  wife  had  some  help  in  nursing. 
I  think  I  may  be  the  means  of  ottering  you  that 
help.  Circumstances  have  happened  which  will 
oblige  Madame  Fosco  to  travel  to  London  either 
to-morrow  or  the  day  after.  She  will  go  away 
in  the  morning  and  return  at  night;  and  she 
will  bring  back  with  her,  to  relieve  you,  a  nurse 
of  excellent  conduct  and  capacity,  who  is  now 
disengaged.  The  woman  is  known  to  my  wife 
as  a  jierson  to  be  trusted.  Before  she  comes 
here  s.ny  nothing  about  her,  if  you  i)lease,  to 
the  doctor,  i)ecause  lie  will  look  with  an  evil  eye 
on  any  nurse  of  my  jirovidiug.  ^^'hcn  she  ap- 
pears in  this  house  she  will  sjieak  for  herself; 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


151 


and  Jlr.  Dawson  will  be  obliged  to  ficknowledf^e 
that  there  is  no  excuse  for  not  eniploying  her. 
Lady  Glyde  will  say  the  same.  Pray  present 
nay  best  respects  and  sympathies  to  Lady  Glyde." 

I  exin-essed  my  grateful  acknowledgments  for 
his  lordship's  kind  consideration.  Sir  Percival 
cut  them  short  by  calling  to  his  noble  friend 
(using,  I  regret  to  say,  a  profane  expression)  to 
come  into  the  library,  and  not  keep  him  waiting 
there  any  longer. 

I  proceeded  up  stairs.  We  are  poor  erring 
creatures ;  and  however  well  established  a  wo- 
man's principles  may  be,  she  can  not  always 
keep  on  her  guard  against  the  temptation  to  ex- 
ercise an  idle  curiosity.  I  am  ashamed  to  say 
that  an  idle  curiosity,  on  this  occasion,  got  the 
l)etter  of  my  principles,  and  made  me  undulv 
inquisitive  about  tlie  question  wliich  Sir  Percival 
liad  addressed  to  his  noble  friend  at  the  library 
door.  Who  was  the  Count  expected  to  find  in 
the  course  of  his  studious  morning  rambles  at 
Blackwater  Park?  A  woman,  it  was  to  be  pre- 
sumed, from  the  terms  of  Sir  Percival's  inquiry. 
I  did  not  suspect  the  Count  of  any  impropriety 
— I  knew  his  moral  character  too  well.  The 
only  question  I  asked  myself  was — Had  he  found 
lier? 

To  resume.  The  night  passed  as  usual,  with- 
out producing  any  change  for  the  better  in  Miss 
Halcombe.  The  next  day  she  seemed  to  im- 
prove a  little.  The  day  after  that  her  ladyship, 
the  Countess,  without  mentioning  the  object  of 
her  journey  to  any  one  in  my  hearing,  proceed- 
ed by  the  morninf;  train  to  London:  her  noble 


husband,  with  his  customary  attention,  accom- 
panying her  to  the  station. 

I  was  now  left  in  sole  charge  of  Miss  Hal- 
combe, ^vith  every  apparent  chance,  in  conse- 
quence of  her  sister's  resolution  not  to  leave  the 
bedside,  of  having  Lady  Glyde  herself  to  nurse 
next. 

The  only  circumstance  of  any  importance  that 
happened  in  the  course  of  the  day  was  the  oc- 
currence of  another  unjdeasant  meeting  between 
the  doctor  and  the  Count. 

His  lordship,  on  returning  from  the  station, 
stepped  up  into  Miss  Halcombe's  sitting-room  to 
make  his  inquiries.  I  went  out  from  tlie  bed- 
room to  speak  to  him,  Mr.  Dawson  and  Lady 
Glyde  being  both  with  the  patient  at  the  time. 
Tlie  Count  asked  me  many  questions  about  the 
treatment  and  the  symptoms.  I  informed  him 
that  the  treatment  was  of  the  kind  described  as 
"saline;"  and  that  the  sym])toms,  between  the 
attacks  of  fever,  were  certainly  those  of  increas- 
ing weakness  and  exhaustion.  Just  as  I  was 
mentioning  these  last  particulars  jMr.  Dawson 
came  out  from  the  bedroom. 

"Good-morning,  Sir,"  said  his  lordship,  step- 
ping forward  in  the  most  urbane  .manner,  and 
stop]iing  the  doctor  with  a  high-bred  resolution 
impossible  to  resist,  "  I  greatly  fear  you  find  no 
improvement  in  the  symptoms  to-day?" 

"  I  find  decided  improvement,"  answered  Mr. 
Dawson. 

"  You  still  persist  in  your  lowering  treatment 
of  this  case  of  fever?"  continued  his  lordship. 

"  I  persist  in  the  treatment  which  is  justified 
by  my  own  professional  experience,"  said  Mr. 
Dawson. 

"Permit  me  to  put  one  question  to  you  on 
the  vast  subject  of  professional  experience,"  ob- 
served tlie  Count,  "  I  presume  to  ofier  no  more 
advice — I  only  presume  to  make  an  inquiry. 
You  live  at  some  distance.  Sir,  from  the  gigan- 
tic centres  of  scientific  activity — London  and 
Paris.  Have  you  ever  heard  of  the  wasting  ef- 
fects of  fever  being  reasonably  and  intelligibly 
repaired  by  fortifying  the  exhausted  patient  with 
brandy,  wine,  ammonia,  and  quinine  ?  Has  that 
new  heresy  of  the  highest  medical  authorities 
ever  reached  your  ears — Yes,  or  No  ?" 

"When  a  professional  man  puts  that  question 
to  me  I  shall  be  glad  to  answer  him,"  said  the 
doctor,  opening  the  door  to  go  out.  "You  are 
not  a  professional  man,  and  I  beg  to  decline  an- 
swering youy 

Buifeted  in  this  inexcusably  uncivil  way  on 
one  cheek,  the  Count,  like  a  jiractical  Christian, 
immediately  turned  tlie  other,  and  said,  in  the 
sweetest  manner,  "Good-morning,  Mr.  Daw- 
son." 

If  my  late  beloved  husband  had  been  so  for- 
tunate as  to  know  his  lordship,  how  highly  he 
and  the  Count  would  have  esteemed  each  other ! 

Her  ladyship  the  Countess  returned  by  the 
last  train  that  night,  and  brought  with  her  the 
nurse  from  London.  I  was  instructed  that  this 
person's  name  was  Mrs.  Rubelle.  Her  personal 
appearance,  and  her  imperfect  EngHsh,  when 
she  spoke,  informed  me  that  she  was  a  foreigner. 

I  have  always  cultivated  a  feeling  of  humane 
indulgence  for  foreigners.  They  do  not  possess 
our  blessings  and  advantages  ;  and  they  are,  for 
the  most  part,  brought  up  in  the  blind  errors  of 


15? 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


"good-morning,  MR.  DAWSON." 


popery.  It  has  also  always  been  my  precept  and 
practice,  as  it  was  my  dear  husband's  precept 
and  practice  before  me  (sec  Sermon  xxix.,  in 
the  Collection  by  the  late  Rev.  Samuel  Michel- 
son,  M.A.),  to  do  as  I  would  be  done  by.  On 
both  these  accounts,  I  will  not  say  that  Mrs. 
Ilubelle  struck  me  as  being  a  small,  wiry,  sly 
person,  of  fifty  or  thereabouts,  with  a  dark  brown 
or  Creole  complexion,  and  watchful,  light  gray 
eyes.  Nor  will  I  mention,  for  the  reasons  just 
alleged,  that  I  thought  her  dress,  though  it  was 
of  the  plainest  black  silk,  inappropriately  costly 
in  texture  and  unnecessarily  refined  in  trimming 
and  finish,  for  a  person  in  her  position  in  life. 
I  should  not  like  these  things  to  be  said  of  me, 
and  therefore  it  is  my  duty  not  to  say  them  of 
Mrs.  Kubelle.  I  will  merely  mention  that  her 
manners  were  —  not  perhaps  unpleasantly  re- 
served— but  only  remarkably  quiet  and  retir- 
ing ;  that  she  looked  about  her  a  great  deal, 
and  said  very  little,  which  might  have  arisen 
quite  as  much  from  her  own  modesty  as  from 
distrust  of  her  position  at  IJhvckwater  I'ark  ; 
and  that  she  declined  to  partake  of  supper 
(which  was  curious,  perhaps,  but  surely  not  sus- 
picious?), although  I  myself  politely  invited  her 
to  that  meal  in  my  own  room. 

At  the  Count's  particular  suggestion  (so  like 


his  lordship's  forgiving  kindness !),  it  was  ar- 
ranged that  Mrs.  Rubelle  should  not  enter  on 
her  duties  until  she  had  been  seen  and  approved 
by  the  doctor  the  next  morning.  I  sat  up  that 
night.  Lady  Clyde  appeared  to  be  very  un- 
willing that  the  new  nurse  should  be  employed 
to  attend  on  Miss  Halcombe.  Such  want  of 
liberality  toward  a  foreigner  on  the  part  of  a 
lady  of  her  education  and  refinement  surjirised 
me.  I  ventured  to  say,  "  My  lady,  we  must  all 
remember  not  to  be  hasty  in  our  judgments  on 
our  inferiors — especially  when  they  come  from 
foreign  parts."  Lady  Clyde  did  not  appear  to 
attend  to  me.  She  only  sighed,  and  kissed  Miss 
Halcombe's  hand  as  it  lay  on  the  counterpane. 
Scarcely  a  judicious  proceeding  in  a  sick-room, 
with  a  patient  whom  it  was  liighly  desirable  not 
to  excite.  But  poor  Lady  (ilyde  knew  nothing 
of  nursing — nothing  wOiatcver,  I  am  sorry  to  say. 
The  next  morning  Mrs.  Kubcllc  was  sent  to 
the  sitting-room,  to  be  a])provcd  by  the  doctor 
on  his  way  tln-ough  to  the  bedroom.  I  left  Lady 
Clyde  witli  Miss  Halcombe,  who  was  slumber- 
ing at  the  time,  and  joined  Mrs.  linbelle,  with 
the  object  of  kindly  preventing  her  from  feeling 
strange  and  nervous  in  consequence  of  the  un- 
certainty of  her  situation.  She  did  not  appear 
to  sec  it  in  that  light.     She  seemed  to  be  quite 


THE  "WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


153 


satisfied  beforehand  that  Mr.  Dawson  would  ap- 
prove of  her  ;  and  she  sat  calmly  looking  out  of 
window,  with  eveiy  appearance  of  enjoying  the 
country  air.  Some  people  might  have  thought 
such  conduct  suggestive  of  brazen  assurance.  I 
beg  to  say  that  I  more  liberally  set  it  down  to 
extraordinary  strength  of  mind. 

Instead  of  the  doctor  coming  up  to  us,  I  was 
sent  for  to  see  the  doctor.  I  thought  tliis  change 
of  affairs  i-ather  odd,  but  Mrs.  Rubelle  did  not 
appear  to  be  affected  by  it  in  any  way.  I  left 
her  still  calmly  looking  out  of  window,  and  still 
silently  enjoying  the  country  air. 

Mr.  Dawson  was  waiting  for  me,  by  himself, 
in  the  breakfast-room. 

"About  this  new  nurse,  Mrs.  Michelson," 
said  the  doctor. 

"Yes,  Sir?" 

"I  find  that  she  has  been  brought  here  from 
London  by  the  wife  of  tliat  fat  old  foreigner, 
who  is  always  trying  to  interfere  with  me.  Mrs. 
Michelson,  the  fat  old  foreigner  is  a  Quack." 

This  was  very  rude.  I  was  naturally  shocked 
at  it. 

"Are  you  aware.  Sir,"  I  said,  "that  you  are 
talking  of  a  nobleman  ?" 

"Pooh!  He  isn't  the  first  Quack  with  a 
handle  to  his  name.  They're  all  Counts — hang 
'em !" 

"He  would  not  be  a  friend  of  Sir  Percival 
Clyde's,  Sir,  if  he  was  not  a  member  of  the 
highest  aristocracy — excepting  the  English  aris- 
tocracy, of  course." 

"  Very  well,  Mrs.  Michelson,  call  him  what 
you  like ;  and  let  us  get  back  to  the  nurse.  I 
have  been  objecting  to  her  already." 

"Without  having  seen  her.  Sir?" 

"Yes,  without  having  seen  her.  She  may  be 
the  best  nurse  in  existence,  but  she  is  not  a 
nurse  of  my  providing.  I  have  put  tliat  objec- 
tion to  Sir  Percival  as  the  master  of  the  house. 
He  doesn't  support  me.  He  says  a  nurse  of  my 
providing  would  have  been  a  stranger  from  Lon- 
don also ;  and  he  thinks  the  woman  ought  to 
have  a  trial,  after  his  wife's  aunt  has  taken  the 
trouble  to  fetch  her  from  London.  There  is 
some  justice  in  that,  and  I  can't  decently  say 
No.  But  I  have  made  it  a  condition  that  she  is 
to  go  at  once  if  I  find  reason  to  complain  of  her. 
This  proposal  being  one  which  I  have  some 
right  to  make,  as  medical  attendant,  Sir  Perci- 
val has  consented  to  it.  Now,  Mrs.  Michelson, 
I  know  I  can  depend  on  you,  and  I  want  you  to 
keep  a  sharp  eye  on  the  nurse  for  the  first  day 
or  two,  and  to  see  that  she  gives  Miss  Halcombe 
no  medicines  but  mine.  This  foreign  nobleman 
of  yours  is  dying  to  try  his  quack  remedies 
(mesmerism  included)  on  my  patient;  and  a 
nurse  who  is  brought  here  by  his  wife  may  be 
a  little  too  willing  to  help  him.  You  under- 
stand ?  Very  well,  then,  we  may  go  up  stairs. 
Is  the  nurse  there  ?  I'll  say  a  word  to  her  be- 
fore she  goes  into  the  sick-room." 

We  found  Mrs.  Rubelle  still  enjoying  herself 
at  the  window.  When  I  introduced  her  to  Mr. 
Dawson  neither  the  doctor's  doubtful  looks  nor 
the  doctor's  searching  questions  appeared  to  con- 
fuse her  in  the  least.  She  answered  him  quiet- 
ly in  her  broken  English ;  and  though  he  tried 
hard  to  puzzle  her,  she  never  betrayed  the  least 
ignorance,  so  far,  about  any  part  of  her  duties. 
This  was  doubtless  the  result  of  strength  of 


mind,  as  I  said  before,  and  not  of  brazen  assur- 
ance by  any  means. 

We  all  went  into  the  bedroom.  Mrs.  Ru- 
belle looked  very  attentively  at  the  patient, 
courtesied  to  Lady  Clyde,  set  one  or  two  little 
things  right  in  the  room,  and  sat  down  quietly 
in  a  corner  to  wait  until  she  was  wanted.  Her 
ladyship  seemed  startled  and  annoyed  by  the 
appearance  of  the  strange  nurse.  No  one  said 
any  thing  for  fear  of  rousing  Miss  Halcombe, 
who  was  still  slumbering,  except  the  doctor, 
who  whispered  a  question  about  the  night.  I 
softly  answered,  "Much  as  usual;"  and  then 
Mr.  Dawson  went  out.  Lady  Clyde  followed 
him,  I  suppose  to  speak  about  Mrs.  Rubelle. 
For  my  own  part,  I  had  made  up  my  mind  al- 
ready that  this  quiet  foreign  person  would  keep 
her  situation.  She  had  all  her  wits  about  her, 
and  she  certainly  understood  her  business.  So 
far  I  could  hardly  have  done  much  better  by 
the  bedside  myself. 

Remembering  Mr.  Dawson's  caution  to  me, 
I  subjected  Mrs.  Rubelle  to  a  severe  scrutiny, 
at  certain  intervals,  for  the  next  three  or  four 
days.  I  over  and  over  again  entered  the  room 
softly  and  suddenly,  but  I  never  found  her  out 
in  any  suspicious  action.  Lady  Clyde,  who 
watched  her  as  attentively  as  I  did,  discovered 
nothing  either.  I  never  detected  a  sign  of  the 
medicine  bottles  being  tampered  with  ;  I  never 
saw  Mrs.  Rubelle  say  a  word  to  the  Count,  or 
the  Count  to  her.  She  managed  Miss  Halcombe 
with  unquestionable  care  and  discretion.  The 
poor  lady  wavered  backward  and  forward  be- 
tween a  sort  of  sleepy  exhaustion,  which  was  half 
faintness  and  half  slumbering,  and  attacks  of 
fever  which  brought  witli  them  more  or  less  of 
wandering  in  her  mind.  Mrs.  Rubelle  never 
disturbed  her  in  the  first  case,  and  never  startled 
her,  in  the  second,  by  appearing  too  suddenly 
at  the  bedside  in  the  character  of  a  stranger. 
Honor  to  wliom  honor  is  due  (whether  foreign 
or  English) — and  I  give  her  privilege  impartial- 
ly to  Mrs.  Rubelle.  She  was  remarkably  un- 
communicative about  herself,  and  she  was  too 
quietly  independent  of  all  advice  from  experi- 
enced persons  who  understood  the  duties  of  a 
sick-room — but,  with  these  drawbacks,  she  was 
a  good  nurse  ;  and  she  never  gave  either  Lady 
Clyde  or  Mr.  Dawson  the  shadow  of  a  reason 
for  complaining  of  her. 

The  next  circumstance  of  importance  that  oc- 
curred in  the  house  was  the  temporary  absence 
of  the  Count,  occasioned  by  business  which  took 
him  to  London.  He  went  away  (I  think)  on 
the  moiTiing  of  the  fourth  day  after  the  arrival 
of  Mrs.  Rubelle ;  and,  at  parting,  he  spoke  to 
Lady  Clyde  very  seriously  in  my  presence  on 
the  subject  of  Miss  Halcombe. 

"Trust  Mr.  Dawson,"  he  said,  "for  a  few 
days  more,  if  you  please.  But  if  there  is  not 
some  change  for  the  better  in  that  time  send 
for  advice  from  London,  whicli  this  mule  of  a 
doctor  must  accept  in  spite  of  himself.  Qft'end 
Mr.  Dawson,  and  save  Miss  Halcombe.  I  say 
those  words  seriously,  on  my  word  of  honor,  and 
from  the  bottom  of  my  heart." 

His  lordship  spoke  with  extreme  feeling  and 
kindness.  But  poor  Lady  Clyde's  nerves  were 
so  completely  broken  down  that  she  seemed 
quite  frightened  at  him.  She  trembled  from 
head  to  foot,  and  allowed  him  to  take  his  leave 


154 


THE  WOxAIAN  IN  WHITE. 


without  utterinp;  a  word  on  her  side.  She  turn- 
ed to  me  when  lie  liad  Rone,  and  said,  "Oh, 
Mrs.  Michclson,  I  am  lieart-broken  about  my 
sister,  and  I  liave  no  friend  to  advise  me!  Do 
you  think  Mr.  Dawson  is  wrong?  He  told  me 
himself  this  morning  that  there  was  no  fear,  and 
no  need  of  fresh  advice." 

"With  all  respect  to  Mr.  Dawson,"  I  an- 
swered, "in  your  ladyship's  place  I  should  re- 
member the  Count's  advice." 

Lady  Glyde  turned  away  from  me  suddenly, 
with  an  appearance  of  despair  for  which  I  was 
quite  unable  to  account. 

"  His  advice !"  she  said  to  herself.  "  God 
help  us — Ids  advice!" 

The  Count  was  away  from  Blackwater  Park, 
as  nearly  as  I  remember,  a  week. 

Sir  Percival  seemed  to  feel  the  loss  of  his 
lordship  in  various  ways,  and  appeared  also,  I 
thought,  much  depressed  and  altered  by  the 
sickness  and  sorrow  in  the  house.  Occasional- 
ly he  was  so  very  restless  that  I  could  not  help 
noticing  it ;  coming  and  going,  and  wandering 
here  and  there  and  every  where  in  the  grounds. 
His  inquiries  about  Miss  Halcombe  and  about 
his  lady  (whose  failing  health  seemed  to  cost  him 
sincere  anxiety)  were  most  attentive.  I  think 
his  heart  was  much  softened.  If  some  kind 
clerical  friend — some  such  friend  as  he  might 
have  found  in  my  late  excellent  husband — had 
been  near  him  at  this  time,  cheering  moral 
progress  might  have  been  made  with  Sir  Per- 
cival. I  seldom  find  myself  mistaken  on  a 
point  of  this  sort,  having  had  experience  to 
guide  me  in  my  happy  married  days. 

Her  ladyship,  the  Countess,  who  was  now 
the  only  company  for  Sir  Percival  down  stairs, 
rather  neglected  him,  as  I  considered.  Or,  per- 
haps, it  might  have  been  that  he  neglected  her. 
A  stranger  migiit  almost  have  supposed  that  they 
were  bent,  now  they  were  left  togetlier  alone,  on 
actually  avoiding  one  another.  This,  of  course, 
could  not  be.  But  it  did  so  hapj^en,  neverthe- 
less, that  the  Countess  made  her  dinner  at 
liincheon-time,  and  that  she  always  came  up 
stairs  toward  evening,  although  Airs.  Rubelle 
had  taken  the  nursing  duties  entirely  off  her 
hands.  Sir  Percival  dined  by  himself,  and 
William  (the  man  out  of  livery)  made  the  re- 
mark, in  my  hearing,  that  his  master  had  put 
himself  on  half  rations  of  food  and  on  a  double 
allowance  of  drink.  I  attach  no  importance  to 
such  an  insolent  observation  as  this  on  the  part 
of  a  servant.  I  reprobated  it  at  the  time,  and 
I  wish  to  be  understood  as  reprobating  it  once 
more  on  this  occasion. 

In  the  course  of  the  next  few  days  Miss  Hal- 
combe did  certainly  seem  to  all  of  us  to  be 
mending  a  little.  Our  faith  in  Mr.  Dawson  re- 
vived. He  seemed  to  be  very  confident  about 
the  case  ;  and  he  assured  Lady  Glyde,  wlicn  she 
spoke  to  him  on  the  subject,  that  he  would  him- 
self propose  to  send  for  a  ])hysician  tlie  moment 
he  felt  so  much  as  the  shadow  of  a  doubt  cross- 
ing his  own  mind. 

The  only  person  among  us  who  did  not  appear 
to  be  relieved  by  these  w(jrds  was  the  Countess. 
She  said  to  me  privately  that  she  could  not  feel 
easy  about  Miss  Halcoml)e  on  Mr.  Dawson's  au- 
thority, and  that  she  should  wait  anxiously  for 
her  husband's  ojjinioii  on  liis  return.     That  re- 


turn, his  letters  informed  her,  would  take  jilace 
in  three  days'  time.  The  Count  and  Countess 
corresponded  regularly  every  morning  during 
his  lordship's  absence.  They  were  in  that  re- 
spect, as  in  all  others,  a  jjatteru  to  married 
people. 

On  the  evening  of  the  third  day  I  noticed  a 
change  in  Miss  Halcombe,  which  caused  me 
serious  apprehension.  Mrs.  Rubelle  noticed  it 
too.  We  said  nothing  on  the  subject  to  Lady 
Glyde,  who  was  then  lying  asleep,  completely 
overjiowered  by  exhaustion,  on  the  sofa  in  the 
sitting-room. 

Mr.  Dawson  did  not  pay  his  evening  visit  till 
later  than  usual.  As  soon  as  he  set  eyes  on  his 
patient  I  saw  his  face  alter.  He  tried  to  hide 
it ;  but  he  looked  both  confused  and  alarmed. 
A  messenger  was  sent  to  his  residence  for  his 
medicine-chest,  disinfecting  preparations  were 
used  in  the  room,  and  a  bed  was  made  up  for 
him  in  the  house  by  his  own  directions.  "  Has 
the  fever  turned  to  infection  ?"  I  whispered  to 
him.  "  I  am  afraid  it  has,"  he  answered ;  "we 
shall  know  better  tomorrow  morning." 

By  Mr.  Dawson's  own  directions  Lady  Glyde 
was  kept  in  ignorance  of  this  change  for  the 
worse.  He  himself  absolutely  forbade  her,  on 
account  of  her  health,  to  join  us  in  the  bedi'oom 
that  night.  She  tried  to  resist — there  was  a  sad 
scene — but  he  had  his  medical  authority  to  sup- 
port him,  and  he  carried  his  point. 

The  next  morning  one  of  the  men  servants 
was  sent  to  London,  at  eleven  o'clock,  with  a 
letter  to  a  i>hysician  in  town,  and  with  orders 
to  bring  the  new  doctor  back  with  him  by  the 
earliest  possible  train.  Half  an  hour  after  the 
messenger  had  gone  the  Count  returned  to 
Blackwater  Park. 

The  Countess,  on  her  ow-n  responsibility,  im- 
mediately brought  him  in  to  see  the  patient. 
There  was  no  im])ropriety  that  I  could  discover 
in  her  taking  this  course.  His  lordship  was  a 
married  man  ;  he  was  old  enough  to  be  ]Miss 
Halcombe's  father  ;  and  he  saw  her  in  the  pres- 
ence of  her  nearest  female  relative,  her  aunt. 
Mr.  Dawson  nevertheless  protested  against  his 
presence  in  the  room  ;  but  I  could  plainly  re- 
mark the  doctor  was  too  much  alarmed  to  make 
any  serious  resistance  on  this  occasion. 

The  poor  suffering  lady  was  past  knowing 
any  one  about  her.  She  seemed  to  take  her 
friends  for  enemies.  When  the  Count  ap- 
proached her  bedside,  her  eyes,  which  liad  been 
wandering  incessantly  round  and  round  the 
room  before,  settled  on  his  face  witli  a  dread- 
ful stare  of  terror,  which  I  shall  remember  to 
my  dying  day.  The  Count  sat  down  by  her ; 
felt  her  pulse  and  her  temples ;  looked  at  her 
very  attentively ;  and  then  tinned  round  upon 
the  doctor  with  such  an  expression  of  indigna- 
tion and  contempt  in  his  face  that  the  words 
failed  on  ]\Ir.  Dawson's  lijis,  and  he  stood  for  a 
moment  pale  with  anger  and  alarm — pale  and 
perfectly  speechless. 

His  lordship  looked  next  at  me. 

"  When  did  the  change  happen  ?"  he  asked. 

I  told  him  the  time. 

"  Has  Lady  Glyde  been  in  the  room  since?" 

I  re])lied  tliat  she  had  not.  The  doctor  had 
absolutely  forbidden  her  to  come  into  the  room 
on  the  evening  before,  and  had  repeated  the  or- 
der ay-ain  in  the  morning. 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


155 


"Have  you  and  Mrs.  llubelle  been  made 
aware  of  the  full  extent  of  the  mischief?"  was 
his  next  question. 

We  were  aware,  I  answered,  that  the  malady 
was  considered  infectious.  He  stopped  me  be- 
fore I  could  add  any  thing  more. 

"  It  is  typhus  fever,"  he  said. 

In  the  minute  that  passed,  while  these  ques- 
tions and  answers  were  going  on,  Mr.  Dawson 
recovered  himself,  and  addressed  the  Count  with 
his  customary  firmness. 

"  It  is  not  typhus  fever,"  he  said,  sharply. 
"I  protest  against  this  intrusion,  Sir.  No  one 
has  a  right  to  put  questions  here  but  me.  I  have 
done  my  duty,  to  the  best  of  my  ability — " 

The  Count  interrupted  him,  not  by  words, 
but  only  by  pointing  t-o  the  bed.  Mr.  Dawson 
seemed  to  feel  that  silent  contradiction  to  his 
assertion  of  his  own  ability,  and  to  grow  only 
the  more  angry  under  it. 

"I  say  I  have  done  my  duty,"  he  reiterated. 
"A  physician  has  been  sent  for  from  London. 
I  will  consult  on  the  nature  of  the  fever  with 
him,  and  with  no  one  else.  I  insist  on  your 
leaving  the  room." 

"  I  entered  this  room,  Sir,  in  the  sacred  inter- 
ests of  humanity,"  said  the  Count.  "  And  in 
the  same  interests,  if  the  coming  of  the  physi- 
cian is  delayed,  I  will  enter  it  again.  I  warn 
you  once  more  that  the  fever  has  turned  to 
typhus,  and  that  your  treatment  is  responsible 
for  this  lamentable  change.  If  that  unhapjn' 
lady  dies,  I  will  give  my  testimony  in  a  court 


of  justice  that  your  ignorance  and  obstinacy  have 
been  the  cause  of  her  death." 

Before  Mr.  Dawson  could  answer,  before  the 
Count  could  leave  us,  the  door  was  opened  from 
the  sitting-room,  and  we  saw  Lady  Glyde  on  the 
threshold. 

"I  must  and  ivill  come  in,"  she  said,  with 
extraordinary  firmness. 

Instead  ofstopping  her  the  Count  moved  into 
the  sitting-room  and  made  way  for  her  to  go 
in.  On  all  other  occasions  he  was  the  last  man 
in  the  world  to  forget  any  thing  ;  but  in  the  sur- 
prise of  the  moment  he  ajiparently  forgot  the 
danger  of  infection  from  ty])hus,  and  the  urgent 
necessity  of  forcing  Lady  Glyde  to  take  proper 
care  of  herself. 

To  my  surprise,  Mr.  Dawson  showed  more 
presence  of  mind.  He  stojiped  her  ladyship  at 
the  first  step  she  took  toward  the  bedside. 

"I  am  sincerely  sorry,  I  am  sincerely  grieved," 
he  said.  "  The  fever  may,  I  fear,  be  infectious. 
Until  I  am  certain  that  it  is  not,  I  entreat  you 
to  keep  out  of  the  room." 

She  struggled  for  a  moment;  then  suddenly 
dropped  her  arms  and  sank  forward.  Slie  had 
fainted.  The  Countess  and  I  took  her  from  the 
doctor,  and  carried  her  into  her  own  room.  The 
Count  preceded  us,  and  waited  in  the  passage 
till  I  came  out  and  told  him  that  we  had  recov- 
ered her  from  the  swoon. 

I  went  back  to  the  doctor  to  tell  him,  by  Lady 
Clyde's  desire,  that  she  insisted  on  speaking  to 
him  immediately.  He  withdi-ew  at  once  to  quiet 
her  ladyship's  agitation,  and  to  assure  her  of  the 
physician's  arrival  in  the  coiwse  of  a  few  hours. 
Those  hours  passed  very  slowly.  Sir  Percival 
and  the  Count  were  together  down  stairs,  and 
sent  up,  from  time  to  time,  to  make  their  in- 
quiries. At  last,  between  five  and  six  o'clock, 
to  our  great  relief,  the  physician  came. 

He  was  a  younger  man  than  J\Ir.  Dawson  ;  very 
serious,  and  very  decided.  What  he  thought  of 
the  previous  treatment  I  can  not  say ;  but  it 
struck  me  as  curious  that  he  put  many  more 
questions  to  myself  and  to  Mrs.  Kubelle  than  he 
put  to  the  doctor,  and  that  he  did  not  appear  to 
listen  with  much  interest  to  what  Mr.  Dawson 
said  while  he  was  examining  Mr.  Dawson's  j)a- 
tient.  I  began  to  suspect,  from  what  I  observed 
in  this  way,  that  the  Count  had  been  right  about 
the  illness  all  the  way  through  ;  and  I  was  natu- 
rally confirmed  in  that  idea  when  Mr.  Dawson, 
after  some  little  delay,  asked  the  one  important 
question  which  the  London  doctor  had  been  sent 
for  to  set  at  rest. 

"What  is  your  opinion  of  the  fever?"  he  in- 
quired. 

"Typhus,"  replied  the  physician.  "Typhus 
fever  laeyond  all  doubt." 

That  quiet  foreign  person,  Mrs.  llubelle, 
crossed  her  thin,  brown  hands  in  front  of  her, 
and  looked  at  me  with  a  very  significant  smile. 
Tiie  Count  himself  could  hardly  have  appeared 
more  gratified,  if  he  had  been  present  in  the 
room,  and  had  heard  the  confirmation  of  his 
own  opinion. 

After  giving  us  some  useful  directions  about 
the  management  of  the  patient,  and  mentioning 
that  he  would  come  again  in  five  days' time,  the 
jiliysician  withdrew  to  consult  in  private  with 
i\Ir.  Dawson.  He  would  offer  no  opinion  on 
Miss  Halcombe's  chances  of  recoverv :  he  said 


15G 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


it  was  impossible  at  that  stage  of  the  illness  to 
pronounce  one  way  or  the  other. 

The  five  clays  passed  anxiously. 

Countess  Fosco  and  myself  took  it  by  turns 
to  relieve  Mrs.  Rubelle;  Miss  Halcombe's  con- 
dition growing  worse  and  worse,  and  requiring 
our  utmost  care  and  attention.  It  was  a  terribly 
trying  time.  Lady  Glyde  (supported,  as  Mr. 
Dawson  said,  by  the  constant  strain  of  her  sus- 
pense on  her  sister's  account)  rallied  in  the  most 
extraordinary  manner,  and  showed  a  firmness 
and  determination  for  which  I  should  myself 
never  have  given  her  credit.  She  insisted  on 
coming  into  the  sick-room  two  or  three  times  ev- 
ery day,  to  look  at  Miss  Halcombe  with  her  own 
eyes,  promising  not  to  go  too  close  to  the  bed 
if  the  doctor  would  consent  to  her  wishes  so  far. 
Mr.  Dawson  very  unwillingly  made  the  conces- 
sion required  of  him :  I  tliink  he  saw  that  it  was 
liopeless  to  dispute  with  her.  She  came  in  ev- 
ery day  ;  and  she  self-denyingly  kept  her  prom- 
ise. I  felt  it  pei'sonally  so  distressing  (as  re- 
minding me  of  my  own  affliction  during  my 
husband's  last  illness)  to  see  how  slie  suffered 
under  these  circumstances,  tliat  I  must  beg  not 
to  dwell  on  this  part  of  the  subject  any  longer. 
It  is  more  agreeable  to  me  to  mention  that  no 
fresh  disputes  took  place  between  Mr.  Dawson 
and  the  Count.  His  lordshi])  made  all  his  in- 
quiries by  deputy,  and  remained  continually  in 
company  with  Sir  Percival  down  stairs. 

On  the  fifth  day  the  physician  came  again, 
and  gave  us  a  little  hope.  He  said  the  tenth 
day  from  the  first  appearance  of  the  typhus 
would  probably  decide  the  result  of  the  illness, 
and  he  arranged  for  his  third  visit  to  take  place 
on  that  date.  The  interval  passed  as  before — 
except  that  the  Count  went  to  London  again, 
one  morning,  and  returned  at  night. 

On  the  tenth  day  it  pleased  a  merciful  Provi- 
dence to  relieve  our  household  from  all  further 
anxiety  and  alarm.  The  physician  positively 
assured  us  that  Miss  Halcombe  was  out  of  dan- 
ger. "  She  wants  no  doctor  now — all  she  re- 
quires is  careful  watching  and  nursing  for  some 
time  to  come,  and  that  I  see  she  lias."  Those 
were  his  own  words.  That  evening  I  read  my 
husband's  touching  sermon  on  Recovery  from 
Sickness  with  more  happiness  and  advantage 
(in  a  spiritual  point  of  view)  than  I  ever  remem- 
ber to  have  derived  from  it  before. 

The  effect  of  the  good  news  on  poor  Lady 
Glyde  was,  I  grieve  to  say,  quite  overpowering. 
She  was  too  weak  to  bear  the  violent  reaction ; 
and  in  another  day  or  two  she  sank  into  a  state 
of  debility  and  de])ression  which  obliged  her  to 
kee])  her  room.  Rest  and  quiet,  and  change 
of  air  afterward,  were  the  best  remedies  which 
Mr.  Dawson  could  suggest  for  her  benefit.  It 
was  fortunate  that  matters  were  no  worse,  for 
on  the  very  day  after  she  took  to  her  room  the 
Count  and  the  doctor  had  another  disagreement, 
and  this  time  the  dis]jute  between  them  was 
of  so  serious  a  nature  that  Mr.  Dawson  left  the 
house. 

I  was  not  present  at  the  time ;  but  I  under- 
stood that  the  subject  of  the  dispute  was  the 
amount  of  nourishment  which  it  was  necessary 
to  give  to  assist  Miss  Halcombe's  convalescence 
after  the  exhaustion  of  the  fever.  Mr.  Dawson, 
now  that  iiis  patient  was  safe,  was  less  inclined 
tlian  ever  to  submit  to  unprofessional  interfer- 


ence ;  and  the  Count  (I  can  not  imagine  why) 
lost  all  the  self-control  which  he  had  so  judi- 
ciously preserved  on  former  occasions,  and  taunt- 
ed the  doctor,  over  and  over  again,  witli  his  mis- 
take about  the  fever,  when  it  changed  to  typhus. 
The  unfortunate  affair  ended  in  Mr.  Dawson's 
appealing  to  Sir  Percival,  and  threatening  (now 
that  he  could  leave  without  absolute  danger  to 
Miss  Halcombe)  to  withdraw  from  his  attend- 
ance at  Blackwater  Park  if  the  Count's  inter 
ference  was  not  peremptorily  suppressed  from 
that  moment.  Sir  Percival's  reply  (though  not 
designedly  uncivil)  had  only  resulted  in  making 
matters  worse;  and  Mr.  Dawson  had  thereuj)on 
withdrawn  from  the  house  in  a  state  of  extreme 
indignation  at  Count  Fosco's  usage  of  him,  and 
had  sent  in  his  bill  the  next  morning. 

We  were  now,  therefore,  left  without  tlie  at- 
tendance of  a  medical  man.  Although  there 
was  no  actual  necessity  for  another  doctor  — 
nursing  and  watching  being,  as  the  physician 
liad  observed,  all  that  Miss  Halcombe  required 
— I  should  still,  if  my  authority  had  been  con- 
sulted, have  obtained  professional  assistance 
from  some  other  quarter,  for  form's  sake. 

The  matter  did  not  seem  to  strike  Sir  Percival 
in  that  light.  He  said  it  would  be  time  enough 
to  send  for  another  doctor  if  Miss  Halcombe 
showed  any  signs  of  a  relapse.  In  the  mean 
while,  we  had  the  Count  to  consult  in  any  minor 
difficulty ;  and  we  need  not  unnecessarily  dis- 
turb our  ])atient,  in  her  present  weak  and  ner- 
vous condition,  by  the  presence  of  a  stranger  at 
her  bedside.  Tliere  was  much  that  was  reason- 
able, no  doubt,  in  these  considerations  ;  but  they 
left  me  a  little  anxious,  nevertheless.  Nor  was 
I  quite  satisfied,  in  my  own  mind,  of  the  pro- 
priety of  our  concealing  the  doctor's  absence,  as 
we  did,  from  Lady  Glyde.  It  was  a  merciful 
deception,  I  admit — for  she  was  in  no  state  to 
bear  any  fresh  anxieties.  But  still  it  was  a  de- 
ception ;  and  as  such,  to  a  person  of  my  princi- 
ples, at  best  a  doubtful  proceeding, 

A  second  perplexing  circumstance  which  hap- 
pened on  the  same  day,  and  which  took  me  com- 
pletely by  surprise,  added  greatly  to  the  sense 
of  uneasiness  that  was  now  weighing  on  my 
mind. 

I  was  sent  for  to  see  Sir  Percival  in  tlie  li- 
brary. The  Count,  who  was  with  him  wlien  I 
went  in,  immediately  rose  and  left  us  alone  to- 
gether. Sir  Percival  civilly  asked  me  to  take  a 
seat;  and  then,  to  my  great  astonishment,  ad- 
dressed me  in  these  terms: 

"  I  want  to  speak  to  you,  Mrs.  Michelson, 
about  a  matter  which  I  decided  on  some  time 
ago,  and  which  I  should  have  mentioned  before 
but  for  the  sickness  and  trouble  in  the  house. 
In  plain  words,  I  have  reasons  for  wishing  to 
break  up  my  establishment  immediately  at  this 
place — leaving  you  in  charge,  of  course,  as  usual. 
As  soon  as  Lady  Glyde  and  Miss  Halcombe  can 
travel,  they  must  both  iiave  change  of  air.  My 
friends.  Count  Fosco  and  the  Countess,  will 
leave  us  before  that  time  to  live  in  the  neigh- 
borhood of  London.  And  I  have  reasons  for  not 
oj)ening  tlie  house  to  any  more  comjian}*,  with 
a  view  to  economizing  as  carefully  as  I  can.  I 
don't  blame  you,  but  my  exjienses  here  are  a 
great  deal  too  heavy.  In  short,  I  shall  sell  the 
horses,  and  get  rid  of  all  tiie  servants  at  once. 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


157 


I  never  do  things  by  halves,  as  yon  know;  and 
I  mean  to  have  the  house  clear  of  a  pack  of 
useless  people  by  this  time  to-morrow." 

I  listened  to  him,  perfectly  aghast  with  aston- 
ishment. 

"  Do  you  mean,  Sir  Percival,  that  I  am  to 
dismiss  the  in-door  servants  under  my  charge 
without  the  usual  month's  warning?"  I  asked. 

"Certainly  I  do.  We  may  all  be  out  of  the 
house  before  another  month  ;  and  I  am  not  go- 
ing to  leave  the  servants  here  in  idleness  with  no 
master  to  wait  on." 

"  Who  is  to  do  the  cooking.  Sir  Percival, 
while  you  are  still  staying  here?'' 

"Margaret  Forcher  can  roast  and  boil — keep 
her.  What  do  I  want  with  a  cook  if  I  don't 
mean  to  give  any  dinner-parties?" 

"The  servant  you  have  mentioned  is  the 
most  unintelligent  servant  in  the  house,  Sir 
Percival—" 

"  Keep  her,  I  tell  you  ;  and  have  a  woman  in 
from  the  village  to  do  the  cleaning  and  go  away 
again.  My  weekly  expenses  must  and  shall  be 
lowered  immediately.  I  don't  send  for  you  to 
make  objections,  Mrs.  Michelson — I  send  for 
you  to  carry  out  my  plans  of  economy.  Dis- 
miss the  whole  lazy  pack  of  in-door  servants  to- 
morrow, except  Porcher.  She  is  as  strong  as  a 
horse,  and  we'll  make  her  work  like  a  horse." 

"  You  will  excuse  me  for  reminding  you.  Sir 
Percival,  that  if  the  servants  go  to-morrow  they 
must  have  a  month's  wages  in  lieu  of  a  month's 
warning." 

"Let  them!  A  month's  wages  saves  a  month's 
waste  and  gluttony  in  the  servants'  hall." 

This  last  remark  conveyed  an  aspersion  of  the 
most  offensive  kind  on  my  management.  I  had 
too  much  self-respect  to  defend  myself  under  so 
gross  an  imputation.  Christian  consideration 
for  the  helpless  position  of  Miss  Halcombe  and 
Lady  Glyde,  and  for  the  serious  inconvenience 
which  my  sudden  absence  might  inflict  on  them, 
alone  prevented  me  from  resigning  my  situation 
on  the  spot.  I  rose  immediately.  It  would 
have  lowered  me  in  my  own  estimation  to  have 
permitted  the  interview  to  continue  a  moment 
longer. 

"After  that  last  remark,  Sir  Percival,  I  have 
nothing  more  to  say.  Your  directions  shall  be 
attended  to."  Pronouncing  those  words,  I  bowed 
my  head  with  the  most  distant  respect,  and 
went  out  of  the  room. 

The  next  day  the  servants  left  in  a  body. 
Sir  Percival  himself  dismissed  the  grooms  and 
stablemen  ;  sending  them,  with  all  the  horses 
but  one,  to  London.  Of  the  whole  domestic 
establishment,  in-doors  and  out,  there  now  re- 
mained only  myself,  Margaret  Porcher,  and  the 
gardener;  this  last  living  in  his  own  cottage, 
and  being  wanted  to  take  care  of  the  one  horse 
that  remained  in  the  stables. 

With  the  house  left  in  this  strange  and  lone- 
ly condition,  with  the  mistress  of  it  ill  in  her 
room,  with  Miss  Halcombe  still  as  helpless  as 
a  child,  and  with  the  doctor's  attendance  with- 
drawn from  us  in  enmity,  it  was  surely  not  un- 
natural that  my  spirits  should  sink,  and  my  cus- 
tomary composure  be  very  hard  to  maintain. 
My  mind  was  ill  at  ease.  I  wished  the  two  poor 
ladies  both  well  again,  and  I  wished  myself 
away  from  Blackwater  Park. 

The  next  event  that  occurred  was  of  so  sin- 


gular a  nature  that  it  might  have  caused  me  a 
feeling  of  superstitious  surprise,  if  my  mind  had 
not  been  fortified  by  principle  against  any  jiagan 
weakness  of  that  sort.  The  uneasy  sense  of 
something  wrong  in  the  family,  which  had  made 
me  wish  myself  away  from  Blackwater  Park, 
was  actually  followed,  strange  to  say,  by  my  dc 
parture  from  the  house.  It  is  true  that  my  ab- 
sence was  for  a  temporary  period  only;  but  the 
coincidence  was,  in  my  opinion,  not  the  less  re- 
markable on  that  account. 

My  departure  took  place  under  the  following 
circumstances : 

On  the  day  when  the  servants  all  left  I  was 
again  sent  for  to  see  Sir  Percival.  The  unde- 
served slur  which  he  had  cast  on  my  manage- 
ment of  the  household  did  not,  I  am  happy  to 
say,  prevent  me  from  returning  good  for  evil  to 
the  best  of  my  ability,  by  complying  with  his  re- 
quest as  readily  and  respectfully  as  ever.  It 
cost  me  a  struggle  with  that  fallen  nature  which 
we  all  share  in  common  before  I  could  suppress 
my  feelings.  Being  accustomed  to  self-disci- 
j)linc,  I  accomplished  the  sacrifice. 

I  found  Sir  Percival  and  Count  Fosco  sitting 
together  again.  On  this  occasion  his  lordship 
remained  present  at  the  interview,  and  assisted 
in  the  development  of  Sir  Percival's  views. 

The  subject  to  which  they  now  requested  my 
attention  related  to  the  Ifealthy  change  of  air  by 
which  we  all  hoped  that  Miss  Halcombe  and 
Lady  Glyde  might  soon  be  enabled  to  jirofit. 
Sir  Percival  mentioned  that  both  the  ladies 
would  probably  pass  the  autumn  (by  invitation 
of  Frederick  Fairlie,  Esquire)  at  Limmeridge 
House,  Cumberland.  But  before  they  went 
there,  it  was  his  opinion,  confirmed  by  Count 
Fosco  (who  here  took  up  the  conversation  and 
continued  it  to  the  end),  that  they  would  benefit 
by  a  short  residence  first  in  the  genial  climate 
of  Torquay.  The  great  object,  therefore,  was 
to  engage  lodgings  at  that  place  affording  all 
the  comforts  and  advantages  of  which  they  stood 
in  need  ;  and  the  great  difficulty  was  to  iind  an 
experienced  person  capable  of  choosing  the  sort 
of  residence  which  they  wanted.  In  this  emer- 
gency the  Count  begged  to  inquire,  on  Sir  Per- 
cival's behalf,  whether  I  would  object  to  give 
the  ladies  the  benefit  of  my  assistance  by  pro- 
ceeding myself  to  Torquay  in  their  interests. 

It  was  impossible  for  a  person  in  my  situation 
to  meet  any  proposal  made  in  these  terms  with 
a  positive  objection.  ^ 

I  could  only  venture  to  represent  the  serious 
inconvenience  of  my  leaving  Blackwater  Park 
in  the  extraordinar}^  absence  of  all  the  in-door 
servants  with  the  one  exception  of  Margaret 
Porcher.  But  Sir  Percival  and  his  lordship  de- 
clared that  they  were  both  willing  to  put  u])  with 
inconvenience  for  the  sake  of  the  invalids.  I 
next  respectfully  suggested  writing  to  an  agent 
at  Torquay ;  but  I  was  met  here  by  being  re- 
minded of  the  imprudence  of  taking  lodgings 
without  first  seeing  them.  I  was  also  informed 
that  the  Countess  (who  would  otherwise  have 
gone  to  Devonshire  herself)  could  not,  in  Lady 
Glyde's  present  condition,  leave  her  niece;  and 
that  Sir  Percival  and  the  Count  had  business  to 
transact  together  which  would  oblige  them  to 
remain  at  Blackwater  Park.  In  short,  it  was 
clearly  shown  me  that  if  I  did  not  undertake 
the  errand  no  one  else  could  be  trusted  with  it. 


158 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


Under  these  circumstances  I  could  only  inform 
Sir  Percival  that  my  services  were  at  the  dis- 
posal of  Miss  Halcombe  and  Lady  Glyde. 

It  was  thereupon  arranged  that  I  should  leave 
the  next  mornincr,  that  I  should  occupy  the  day 
after  in  examining  all  the  most  convenient 
houses  in  Torquay,  and  that  I  should  return, 
with  my  report,  on  the  third  day.  A  memo- 
randum was  written  for  me  by  his  lordship, 
stating  the  various  requisites  which  the  place  I 
was  sent  to  take  must  be  found  to  possess  ;  and 
a  note  of  the  jiecuniary  limit  assigned  to  me 
was  added  by  Sir  Percival. 

My  own  idea,  on  reading  over  these  instruc- 
tions, was,  that  no  such  residence  as  I  saw  de- 
scribed could  be  found  at  any  watering-place  in 
England ;  and  that,  even  if  it  could  by  chance 
be  discovered,  it  would  certainly  not  be  parted 
with  for  any  period  on  such  terms  as  I  was  per- 
mitted to  otfer.  I  hinted  at  these  difficulties  to 
both  the  gentlemen,  but  Sir  Percival  (who  un- 
dertook to  answer  me)  did  not  ap]iear  to  feel 
them.  It  was  not  for  me  to  dispute  the  ques- 
tion. I  said  no  more ;  but  I  felt  a  very  strong 
conviction  that  the  business  on  which  I  was  sent 
away  was  so  beset  by  difficulties  that  my  errand 
was  almost  hopeless  at  starting. 

Before  I  left  I  took  care  to  satisfy  myself  that 
Miss  Halcombe  was  going  on  favorably. 

There  was  a  painful  expression  of  anxiety  in 
her  face  which  made  me  fear  that  her  mind  on 
first  recovering  itself  was  not  at  ease.  But  she 
was  certainly  strengthening  more  rapidly  than  I 
could  have  ventured  to  anticipate ;  and  she  was 
able  to  send  kind  messages  to  Lady  Glyde,  say- 
ing that  she  was  fast  getting  well,  and  entreat- 
ing her  ladyship  not  to  exert  herself  again  too 
soon.  I  left  her  in  charge  of  Mrs.  liubelle,  Avho 
was  still  as  quietly  independent  of  every  one 
else  in  the  house  as  ever.  When  I  knocked  at 
Lady  Glyde's  door,  before  going  away,  I  was 
told  that  she  was  still  sadly  weak  and  dejn-essed  ; 
my  informant  being  the  Countess,  who  was  then 
keeping  her  company  in  her  room.  Sir  Perci- 
val and  the  Count  were  walking  on  the  road  to 
the  lodge  as  I  Avas  driven  by  in  the  chaise.  I 
bowed  to  them,  and  quitted  the  house  with  not 
a  living  soul  left  in  the  servants'  otiices  but  Mar- 
garet Porcher. 

Every  one  must  feel  what  I  have  felt  myself 
since  that  time,  that  these  circumstances  were 
more  than  unusual — they  were  almost  suspicious. 
Let  me,  Jiowever,  say  again,  that  it  was  impos- 
sible for  me,  in  my  dependent  jjosition,  to  act 
otherwise  than  I  did. 

The  result  of  my  errand  at  Torquay  was  ex- 
actly what  I  had  foreseen.  No  such  lodgings 
as  I  was  instructed  to  take  could  be  found  in 
the  whole  place ;  and  the  terms  I  was  permitted 
to  give  were  much  too  low  for  the  juirpose,  even 
if  I  had  been  able  to  discover  what  I  wanted. 
I  returned  to  Blackwatcr  I'ark  on  the  third  day, 
and  informed  Sir  Percival,  who  met  me  at  the 
door,  that  my  journey  had  been  taken  in  vain. 
He  seemed  too  much  occu])ied  with  some  other 
subject  to  care  about  the  failure  of  my  errand, 
and  his  first  words  infonned  mc  that  even  in  the 
short  time  of  my  absence  anotlier  rennirkable 
change  liad  taken  ))lace  in  the  house. 

The  Count  and  C^ountcss  Fosco  had  left  Black- 
water  Park  for  their  new  residence  in  St.  John's 
Wood. 


I  was  not  made  aware  of  the  motive  for  this 
sudden  departure — I  was  only  told  that  the 
Count  had  been  very  particular  in  leaving  his 
kind  con)pliments  for  me.  When  I  ventured  on 
asking  Sir  Percival  whether  Lady  Glyde  had 
any  one  to  attend  to  her  comforts  in  the  absence 
of  the  Countess,  he  rejdied  that  she  had  Marga- 
ret Porcher  to  wait  on  her ;  and  he  added  that 
a  woman  from  the  village  had  been  sent  for  to 
do  the  work  down  stairs. 

The  answer  really  shocked  me — there  was 
such  a  glaring  impropriety  in  permitting  an  un- 
der-housemaid  to  fill  the  place  of  confidential 
attendant  on  Lady  Glyde.  I  went  up  stairs  at 
once,  and  met  Margaret  on  the  bedroom  land- 
ing. Her  services  had  not  been  required  (natu- 
rally enough),  her  mistress  having  sufficiently 
recovered  that  morning  to  be  able  to  leave  her 
bed.  I  asked  next  after  Miss  Halcombe,  but 
I  was  answered  in  a  slouching,  sulky  way,  which 
left  me  no  wiser  than  I  M-as  before.  I  did  not 
choose  to  repeat  the  question,  and  perhaps  pro- 
voke an  impertinent  reply.  It  was  in  every  re- 
spect more  becoming  to  a  person  in  my  posi- 
tion to  present  myself  immediately  in  Lady 
Glyde's  room. 

I  found  that  her  ladyship  had  certainly  gained 
in  health  during  the  last  three  days.  Although 
still  sadly  weak  and  nervous,  she  was  able  to 
get  up  without  assistance,  and  to  walk  slowly 
about  her  room,  feeling  no  worse  effect  from 
the  exertion  than  a  slight  sensation  of  fatigue. 
She  had  been  made  a  little  anxious  that  morn- 
ing about  Miss  Halcombe,  through  having  re- 
ceived no  news  of  her  from  any  one.  I  thought 
this  seemed  to  imply  a  blamable  want  of  atten- 
tion on  the  part  of  Mrs.  Bubelle  ;  but  I  said  no- 
thing, and  remained  with  Lady  Glyde  to  assist 
her  to  dress.  When  she  was  ready  we  both  left 
the  room  together  to  go  to  Miss  Halcombe. 

We  were  stojiped  in  the  passage  by  the  ap- 
pearance of  Sir  Percival.  He  looked  as  if  he 
had  been  purposely  waiting  there  to  see  us. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  he  said  to  Lady 
Glyde. 

"To  Marian's  room,"  she  answered. 

"It  may  spare  you  a  disappointment,"  remark- 
ed Sir  Percival,  ''  if  I  tell  you  at  once  that  you 
will  not  find  her  there.'' 

"  Not  find  her  there  !" 

"  No.  She  left  the  house  yesterday  morning 
with  Fosco  and  his  wife." 

Lady  Glyde  was  not  strong  enough  to  bear 
the  surprise  of  this  extraordinary  statement. 
She  turned  fearfully  pale,  and  leaned  back 
against  the  wall,  looking  at  her  husband  in  dead 
silence. 

I  was  so  astonished  myself  that  I  hardly  knew 
what  to  say.  I  asked  Sir  Percival  if  he  really 
meant  that  Miss  Halcombe  had  left  Blackwatcr 
Park. 

"  I  certainly  mean  it,"  he  answered. 

"  In  her  state.  Sir  Percival !  Without  men- 
tioning her  intentions  to  Lady  Glyde  !" 

Before  he  could  reply  her  ladyship  recovered 
herself  a  little  and  spoke. 

"  Im]iossible !"  she  cried  out,  in  a  loud,  fright- 
ened manner,  taking  a  stc])  or  two  forward 
from  the  wall.  "Where  was  the  Doctor,  where 
was  Mr.  Dawson  when  Marian  went  away?" 

"Mr.  Dawson  wasn't  wanted,  and  wasn't 
here,"  said  Sir  Percival.     "He  left  of  his  own 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


159 


accorJ,  which  is  enough  of  itself  to  sliow  that 
she  was  strong  enough  to  travel.  How  you 
stare  !  If  you  don't  believe  she  has  gone,  look 
for  yourself.  Open  her  room  door,  and  all  the 
other  room  doors,  if  you  like." 

She.tookhim  at  his  word,  and  I  followed  her. 
There  was  no  one  in  Miss  Halcombe's  room  but 
Margaret  Porcher,  who  was  busy  setting  it  to 
rights.  There  was  no  one  in  the  s])are  i-ooms 
or  the  dressing-rooms  when  we  looked  into  them 
afterward.  Sir  Percival  still  waited  for  us  in 
the  passage.  As  we  were  leaving  the  last  room 
that  we  had  examined  Lady  Glydc  whispered, 
"Don't  go,  Mrs.  Michelson !  don't  leave  me, 
for  God's  sake!"  Before  I  could  say  any  thing 
in  return  she  was  out  again  in  the  passage 
speaking  to  her  Inisband. 

"  What  does  it  mean,  Sir  Percival  ?  I  insist — 
I  beg  and  jiray  you  will  tell  me  what  it  means !" 

"It  means,"  he  answered,  "that  Miss  Hal- 
combe  was  strong  enough  yesterday  morning  to 
sit  u])  and  be  dressed,  and  that  she  insisted  on 
taking  advantage  of  Fosco's  going  to  London 
to  go  there  too." 

"  To  London !" 

"  Yes — on  her  way  to  Limmeridge." 

Lady  Glyde  turned  and  appealed  to  me. 

"  You  saw  Miss  Halcombe  last,"  she  said. 
"  Did  you  think  she  looked  fit  to  travel  in  four- 
and-twenty  hours  afterward  ?" 

"Not  in  ynij  opinion,  yoor  ladysliip." 

Sir  Percival,  on  his  side,  instantly  turned  and 
appealed  to  me  also. 

"  Befdre  you  went  aAvay,"  he  said,  "did  you, 
or  did  you  not,  tell  the  nurse  that  Miss  Hal- 
combe looked  much  stronger  and  better?" 

"  I  certainly  made  the  remark,  Sir  Percival." 

He  addressed  her  ladyship  again  the  moment 
I  offered  that  reply. 

"  Set  one  of  Mrs.  Michelson's  opinions  fairly 
against  the  other,"  he  said,  "and  try  to  be  rea- 
sonable about  a  perfectly  jilain  matter.  If  she 
had  not  been  well  enough  to  be  moved  do  you 
think  we  should  any  of  us  have  risked  letting 
her  go  ?  She  has  got  three  competent  people 
to  look  after  her — Fosco,  and  your  aunt,  and 
Mrs.  Eubelle,  who  went  away  with  them  ex- 
pressly for  that  purpose.  They  took  a  whole 
carriage  yesterday,  and  made  a  bed  for  her  on 
the  seat,  in  case  she  felt  tired.  To-day,  Fosco 
and  Mrs.  Rubelle  go  on  with  her  themselves  to 
Cumberland — " 

"Why  does  Marian  go  to  Limmeridge  and 
leave  me  here  by  myself?"  said  her  ladyship, 
interrupting  Sir  Percival. 

"  Because  your  uncle  woTi't  receive  you  till  he 
has  seen  your  sister  first,"  he  re])lied.  "  Have 
you  forgotten  the  letter  he  wrote  to  her  at  the 
beginning  of  her  illness  ?  It  was  shown  to  you  ; 
you  read  it  yourself;  and  you  ought  to  i-emem- 
ber  it." 

"I  do  remember  it." 

"If  you  do,  why  should  you  be  surprised  at 
her  leaving  you  ?  You  want  to  be  back  at  Lim- 
meridge, and  she  has  gone  there  to  get  your 
uncle's  leave  for  you  on  his  own  terms." 

Poor  Lady  Glyde's  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"Marian  never  left  me  before,"  she  said, 
"without  bidding  me  good-by." 

"  She  would  have  bid  you  good-by  this  time," 
returned  Sir  Percival,  "if  she  had  not  been 
afraid  of  herself  and  of  you.      She  knew  you 


would  try  to  stop  her  ;  she  knew  you  would  dis- 
tress her  by  crying.  Do  you  want  to  make  any 
more  objections  ?  If  you  do,  you  must  come 
down  stairs  and  ask  questions  in  the  dining- 
room.  These  worries  ujiset  me.  I  want  a  glass 
of  wine." 

He  left  us  suddenly. 

His  manner  all  through  this  strange  conversa- 
tion had  been  very  unlike  what  it  usually  was. 
He  seemed  to  be  almost  as  nervous  and  fiutter- 
ed,  every  now  and  then,  as  his  lady  herself.  I 
should  never  have  sup])osed  that  his  health  had 
been  so  delicate,  or  his  composure  so  easy  to 
upset. 

I  tried  to  prevail  on  Lady  Glyde  to  go  back 
to  her  room,  but  it  was  useless.  She  stopped 
in  the  passage,  with  the  look  of  a  woman  whose 
mind  was  panic-stricken  : 

"  Something  has  happened  to  my  sister !"  she 
said. 

"  Remember,  my  lady,  what  surprising  ener- 
gy there  is  in  Miss  Halcombe,"  I  suggested. 
"  She  might  well  make  an  effort  which  other 
ladies  in  her  situation  would  be  unfit  for.  I 
hope  and  believe  there  is  nothing  wrong — I  do 
indeed." 

"I  must  follow  Marian!"  said  her  ladyship, 
with  tire  same  panic-stricken  look.  "  I  must  go 
wliere  she  has  gone  ;  I  must  see  that  she  is  alive 
and  well  with  my  own  eyes.  Come !  come  down 
with  me  to  Sir  Percival !" 

I  hesitated,  fearing  that  my  presence  might 
be  considered  an  intrusion.  I  attempted  to  rep- 
resent this  to  her  ladyship;  but  she  was  deaf  to 
me.  She  held  my  arm  fast  enough  to  force  me 
to  go  down  stairs  with  her;  and  she  still  clung 
to  me  with  all  the  little  strength  she  had  at  the 
moment  when  I  opened  the  dining-room  door. 

Sir  Percival  was  sitting  at  the  table  with  a 
decanter  of  wine  before  him.  He  raised  the 
glass  to  his  lips  as  we  went  in,  and  drained  it 
at  a  draught.  Seeing  that  he  looked  at  me  an- 
grily when  he  put  it  down  again,  I  attempted 
to  make  some  apology  for  my  accidental  pres- 
ence in  the  room. 

"Do  you  suppose  there  are  any  secrets  going 
on  here?"  he  broke  out,  suddenly;  "there  are 
none — -there  is  nothing  underhand ;  nothing 
kept  from  you  or  from  any  one."  After  sjjcak- 
ing  those  strange  words  loudly  and  sternly,  he 
filled  himself  another  glass  of  wine,  and  asked 
Lady  Glyde  what  she  wanted  of  him. 

"  If  my  sister  is  fit  to  travel  I  am  fit  to  trav- 
el," said  her  ladyship,  with  more  iirmness  than 
she  had  yet  shown.  "I  come  to  beg  you  will 
make  allowances  for  my  anxiety  about  Marian, 
and  let  me  follow  her  at  once  by  the  afternoon 
train." 

"You  must  wait  till  to-morrow,"  replied  Sir 
Percival;  "and  then,  if  you  don't  hear  to  the 
contrary,  you  can  go.  I  don't  suppose  you  are 
at  all  likely  to  hear  to  the  contrary — so  I  shall 
write  to  Fosco  by  to-night's  post." 

He  said  those  last  words  holding  his  glass  up 
to  the  light,  and  looking  at  the  wine  in  it  in- 
stead of  at  Lady  Glyde.  Indeed  he  never  once 
looked  at  her  throughout  the  conversation. 
Such  a  singular  want  of  good-breeding  in  a 
gentleman  of  his  rank  impressed  me,  I  own, 
very  painfully. 

"Why  should  you  write  to  Count  Fosco?" 
she  asked,  in  extreme  surprise. 


160 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE, 


"To  tell  liim  to  expect  you  by  the  mid-day 
train,"  said  Sir  Pcrcival.  "He  will  meet  yoii 
at  the  station  when  you  get  to  London,  and 
take  you  on  to  sleep  at  your  aunt's  in  St.  John's 
Wood." 

Lady  Clyde's  hand  began  to  tremble  violent- 
ly round  my  arm — why,  I  could  not  imagine. 

"  There  is  no  necessity  for  Count  Fosco  to 
meet  me,"  she  said.  "  I  would  rather  not  stay 
in  London  to  slee])." 

"  You  must.  You  can't  take  the  whole  jour- 
ney to  Cumberland  in  one  day.  You  must  rest 
a  night  in  London  ;  and  I  don't  choose  you 
to  go  by  yourself  to  a  hotel.  Fosco  made  the 
offer  to  your  uncle  to  give  you  house-room  on 
the  way  down,  and  your  uncle  has  accepted  it. 
Here !  here  is  a  letter  from  him  addressed  to 
yourself.  I  ought  to  have  sent  it  up  this  morn- 
ing, but  I  forgot.  Read  it,  and  see  what  Mr. 
Fairlie  himself  says  to  you." 

Lady  Clyde  looked  at  the  letter  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  then  placed  it  in  my  hands. 

"Kead  it,"  she  said,  faintly.  "I  don't  know 
what  is  the  matter  with  me.  I  can't  read  it 
,  myself." 

It  was  a  note  of  only  three  lines — so  short 
and  so  careless  that  it  quite  struck  me.  If  I 
remember  correctly,  it  contained  no  more  than 
these  words : 

"Dearest  Laura, — Please  come  whenever 
you  like.  Break  the  journey  by  sleeping  at  your 
aunt's  house.  Crieved  to  hear  of  dear  Marian's 
illness.     Affectionately  yours, 

"Frederick  Fairlie." 

"I  would  rather  not  go  there— I  would  rather 
not  stay  a  night  in  London,"  said  her  ladyship, 
breaking  out  eagerly  with  those  words  before  I 
had  quite  done  reading  the  note,  short  as  it  was. 
"  Don't  write  to  Count  Fosco !  Fray,  pray  don't 
write  to  him !" 

Sir  Percival  filled  another  glass  from  the  de- 
canter, so  awkwardly  that  he  upset  it  and  spilt 
all  the  wine  over  the  table.  "  My  sight  seems 
to  be  failing  me,"  he  muttered  to  himself  in  an 
odd,  muffled  voice.  He  slowly  set  the  glass  up 
again,  refilled  it,  and  drained  it  once  more  at 
a  draught.  I  began  to  fear,  from  his  look  and 
manner,  that  the  wine  was  getting  into  his  head. 

"  Pray  don't  write  to  Count  Fosco !"  persisted 
Lady  Clyde,  more  earnestly  than  ever. 

"Why  not,  I  should  like  to  know!" cried  Sir 
Percival,  with  a  sudden  burst  of  anger  that 
startled  us  both.  "Where  can  you  stay  more 
properly  in  London  than  at  the  place  your  uncle 
himself  chooses  for  you — at  your  aunt's  house  ? 
Ask  Mrs.  Michelson." 

The  arrangement  proposed  was  so  unques- 
tionably the  right  and  the  pro])er  one  that  I 
could  make  no  possible  objection  to  it.  Much 
as  I  sympathized  with  Lady  Clyde  in  other  re- 
spects, I  could  not  sympathize  with  her  in  her 
unjust  prejudices  against  Count  Fosco.  I  nev- 
er before  met  with  any  ladv  of  her  rank  and 
station  who  was  so  lamentably  narrow-minded 
on  the  subject  of  foreigners.  Neither  her  un- 
cle's note  nor  Sir  Percival's  increasing  impa- 
tience seemed  to  have  the  least  effect  on  her. 
She  still  objected  to  staying  anight  in  London; 
slie  still  implored  her  husband  not  to  write  to 
the  Count. 

"  Drop  it !"  said  Sir  Percival,  rudely  turning 


I  his  back  on  us.     "  If  you  haven't  sense  enough 
I  to  know  what  is  best  for  yourself,  other  people 
:  must  know  for  you.     The  arrangement  is  made, 
and  there  is  an  end  of  it.     You  are  only  want- 
ed to  do  what  Miss  Halcombe  has  done  before 
you—" 

"Marian?"  repeated  her  ladyship,  in  a  be- 
wildered manner;  "Marian  sleeping  in  Count 
Fosco's  house!" 

"Yes,  in  Count  Fosco's  house.  She  slept 
there  last  night  to  break  the  journey.  And 
you  are  to  follow  her  example,  and  do  what 
your  uncle  tells  you.  You  are  to  sleep  at  Fos- 
co's to-morrow  night,  as  your  sister  did,  to  break 
the  journey.  Don't  throw  too  many  obstacles 
in  my  way !  Don't  make  me  repent  of  letting 
you  go  at  all !" 

He  started  to  his  feet,  and  suddenly  walked 
out  into  the  veranda  .through  the  open  glass 
doors. 

"  Will  your  ladyship  excuse  me,"  I  whispered, 
"  if  I  suggest  that  we  had  better  not  wait  here 
till  Sir  Percival  comes  back?  I  am  very  much 
afiaid  he  is  overexcited  with  wine." 

She  consented  to  leave  the  room  in  a  weary, 
absent  manner. 

As  soon  as  we  were  safe  up  stairs  again  I  did 
all  I  could  to  compose  her  ladyship's  spirits.  I 
reminded  her  that  Mr.  Fairlie's  letters  to  JNIiss 
Halcombe  and  to  herself  did  certainly  sanction, 
and  even  render  necessary,  sooner  or  later,  the 
course  that  had  been  taken.  She  agreed  to 
this,  and  even  admitted,  of  her  own  accord, 
that  both  letters  were  strictly  in  character  with 
her  uncle's  peculiar  disposition ;  but  her  fears 
about  Miss  Halcombe,  and  her  unaccountable 
dread  of  sleeping  at  the  Count's  house  in  Lon- 
don, still  remained  unshaken  in  spite  of  every 
consideration  that  I  could  urge.  I  thought  it 
my  duty  to  protest  against  Lady  Clyde's  unfa- 
vorable opinion  of  his  lordship ;  and  I  did  so 
with  Becoming  forbearance  and  respect. 

"Your  ladyship  will  pardon  my  freedom,"  I 
remarked,  in  conclusion;  "but  it  is  said,  'bj' 
their  fruits  ye  shall  know  them.'  I  am  sure  the 
Count's  constant  kindness  and  constant  atten- 
tion from  the  very  beginning  of  MissHalcombe's 
illness  merit  our  best  confidence  and  esteem. 
Even  his  lordship's  serious  misunderstanding 
with  Mr.  Dawson  was  entirely  attributable  to 
his  anxiety  on  Miss  Halcombe's  account. 

"  What  misunderstanding?"  inquired  her  la- 
dyship, with  a  look  of  sudden  interest. 

I  related  the  unhappy  circumstances  under 
which  Mr.  Dawson  had  withdrawn  his  attend- 
ance— mentioning  them  all  the  more  readily 
because  I  disapproved  of  Sir  Percival's  continu- 
ing to  conceal  what  had  hajijiened  (as  he  had 
done  in  my  presence)  from  the  knowledge  of 
Lady  Clyde. 

Her  ladyship  started  up  with  every  appear- 
ance of  being  additionally  agitated  and  alarmed 
by  what  I  had  told  her. 

"Worse,  worse  than  I  thought!"  she  said, 
walking  about  the  room  in  a  bewildered  man- 
ner. "The  Count  knew  Mr.  Dawson  would 
never  consent  to  Marian's  taking  a  jotu-ney — he 
purposely  insulted  the  Doctor  to  get  him  out  of 
the  house." 

"  Oh,  my  lady !  my  lady  !"  I  remonstrated. 

"  Mrs.  Michelson !"  she  went  on,  vehemently ; 
"  no  words  that  ever  were  spoken  will  jicrsuade 


THE  WOilAN  IN  WHITE. 


161 


me  tliat  my  sister  is  in  that  man's  power  and  in 
that  man's  house  with  her  own  consent.  My 
horror  of  him  is  such  that  nothing  ISir  Percival 
could  say,  and  no  letters  my  uncle  could  write, 
would  induce  me,  if  I  had  only  my  own  feelings 
to  consult,  to  eat,  drink,  or  sleep  under  his  roof. 
Bat  my  misery  of  suspense  about  Marian  gives 
me  the  courage  to  follow  her  any  where — to  fol- 
low her  even  into  Count  Fosco's  house." 

I  thought  it  right,  at  this  point,  to  mention 
that  Miss  Ilalcombe  had  already  gone  on  to 
Cumberland,  according  to  Sir  Percival's  account 
of  the  matter. 

"I  am  afraid  to  believe  it!"  answered  her 
ladyship.  "I  am  afraid  she  is  still  in  that 
man's  house.  If  I  am  wrong — if  she  has  really 
gone  on  to  Lirameridge — I  am  resolved  I  will 
not  sleep  to-morrow  night  under  Count  Fosco's 
roof.  My  dearest  friend  in  the  world,  next  to 
my  sister,  lives  near  Loiadon.  You  have  heard 
me,  yoa  liave  heard  Miss  Halcombe,  sjieak  of 
Mrs.  Vesey?  I  mean  to  write  and  pro])ose  to 
sleep  at  her  house.  I  don't  know  how  I  shall 
get  there — I  don't  know  how  I  shall  avoid  the 
Count — but  to  that  refuge  I  will  escape  in  some 
way  if  my  sister  has  gone  to  Cumberland.  All 
I  ask  of  vou  to  do  is  to  see  yourself  that  my  let- 
ter to  Mrs.  Vesey  goes  to  London  to-night,  as 
certainly  as  Sir  Percival's  letter  goes  to  Count 
Fosco.  I  have  reasons  for  not  trusting  the 
])ost-bag  down  stairs.  Will  you  keep  my  secret, 
and  help  me  in  this?  it  is  the  last  favor,  per- 
haps, that  I  shall  ever  ask  of  you." 

I  hesitated — I  thought  it  all  very  strange — I 
almost  feared  that  her  ladyship's  mind  had  been 
a  little  atTected  by  recent  anxiety  and  suffering. 
At  my  own  risk,  however,  I  ended  by  giving  my 
consent.  If  the  letter  had  been  addressed  to  a 
stranger,  or  to  any  one  but  a  lady  so  well  known 
to  me  by  report  as  Mrs.  Vesey,  I  might  have 
refused.  I  thank  God — looking  to  what  hap- 
pened afterward — I  thank  God  I  never  thwarted 
that  wish,  or  any  other,  which  Lady  Glyde  ex- 
pressed to  me  on  the  last  day  of  her  residence 
at  Blackwater  Park. 

The  letter  was  written  and  giveti  into  my 
hands.  I  myself  put  it  into  the  post-box  in  the 
village  that  evening. 

We  saw  nothing  more  of  Sir  Percival  for  the 
rest  of  the  day.  I  slept,  by  Lady  Glyde's  own 
desire,  in  the  next  room  to  hers,  with  the  door 
open  between  us.  There  was  something  so 
strange  and  dreadful  in  the  loneliness  and 
emptiness  of  the  house  that  I  was  glad,  on  my 
side,  to  have  a  companion  near  me.  Her  lady- 
ship sat  up  late  reading  letters  and  burning 
them,  and  emptying  her  drawers  and  cabinets 
of  little  things  she  prized  as  if  she  never  ex- 
pected to  return  to  Blackwater  Park.  Her 
sleep  was  sadly  disturbed  when  she  at  last  went 
to  bed :  she  cried  out  in  it  several  times — once 
so  loud  that  she  woke  herself.  Whatever  her 
dreams  were,  she  did  not  think  fit  to  communi- 
cate them  to  me.  Perhaps,  in  my  situation,  I 
had  no  right  to  expect  that  she  should  do  so. 
It  matters  little  now.  I  was  sorry  for  her — I 
was  indeed  heartily  sorry  for  her  all  the  same. 

The  next  day  was  fine  and  sunny.  Sir  Per- 
cival came  up  after  breakfast  to  tell  us  that  the 
chaise  would  be  at  the  door  at  a  quarter  to 
twelve ;  the  train  to  Londbn  stopping  at  our 
station  at  twenty  minutes  after.     He  informed 


;  Lady  Glyde  that  he  was  obliged  to  go  out,  but 
added  that  he  ho])ed  to  be  back  before  she  left. 
■  If  any  unforeseen  accident  delayed  him,  I  was 
:  to  accompany  her  to  the  station,  and  to  take 
special  care  that  she  was  in  time  for  the  train. 
Sir  Percival  communicated  these  directions  very 
hastily,  walking  here  and  there  about  the  room 
all  the  time.  Her  ladyship  looked  attentively 
after  him  wherever  he  went.  He  never  once 
looked  at  her  in  return. 

She  only  spoke  when  he  had  done,  and  then 
she  stopped  him  as  he  approached  the  door  b\' 
holding  out  her  hand. 

"  I  shall  see  you  no  more,"  she  said,  in  a  very 
marked  manner.  "This  is  our  parting — cm 
]»arting,  it  may  be  forever.  Will  you  try  to  for- 
give me,  Peixival,  as  heartily  as  I  forgive  you'?'" 
His  face  turned  of  an  awful  whiteness  ali 
over,  and  great  beads  of  pers{)iratiou  broke  out 
on  his  bald  forehead.  "  1  shall  come  back, "  he 
said — and  made  for  the  door  as  hastily  as  if  his 
wife's  farewell  words  had  frightened  him  out  of 
the  room. 

I  had  never  liked  Sir  Percival — but  the  man- 
ner in  which  he  left  Lady  Glyde  made  me  feel 
ashamed  of  having  eaten  his  bread  and  lived  in 
his  service.  I  thought,  of  saying  a  few  com- 
forting and  Christian  words  to  the  poor  lady ; 
but  there  was  something  in  her  face,  as  she 
looked  after  her  husband  when  the  door  closed 
on  him,  that  made  me  alter  my  mind  and  keep 
silence. 

At  the  time  named  the  chaise  drew  up  at  the 
gates.  Her  ladyship  was  right — Sir  Percival 
never  came  back.  I  waited  for  him  till  the  last 
moment — and  waited  in  vain. 

No  positive  responsibility  lay  on  my  shoulders, 
and  yet  I  did  not  feel  easy  in  my  mind.  "  It  is 
of  your  own  free-will,"  I  said,  as  the  chaise 
drove  through  the  lodge-gates,  "  that  your  lady- 
ship goes  to  London  ?" 

"  I  will  go  any  where,"  she  answered,  "  to 
end  the  dreadful  suspense  that  I  am  suffering 
at  this  moment." 

She  had  made  me  feel  almost  as  anxious  and 
as  uncertain  about  Miss  Halcombe  as  she  felt 
herself.  I  presumed  to  ask  her  to  write  me  a 
line  if  all  went  well  in  London.  She  answered, 
"Most  willingly,  Mrs.  Michelson."  "We  all 
have  our  crosses  to  bear,  my  lady,"  I  said,  see- 
ing her  silent  and  thoughtful  after  she  had 
promised  to  write.  She  made  no  reply:  she 
seemed  to  be  too  much  wrapped  up  in  her  own 
thoughts  to  attend  to  me.  "I  fear  your  lady- 
ship rested  badly  last  night,"  I  remarked,  after 
W'aiting  a  little.  "Yes,"  she  said;  "I  ^vas 
terribly  disturbed  by  dreams."  "Indeed,  my 
lady?"  I  thought  she  was  going  to  tell  me  her 
dreams;  but  no,  when  she  s]ioke  next  it  was 
only  to  ask  a  question.  "  You  posted  the  letter 
to  Mrs.  Vesey  with  your  own  hands?"  "Yes, 
my  lady."  "Did  Sir  Percival  say,  yesterday, 
that  Count  Fosco  was  to  meet  me  at  the  ter- 
minus in  London?"     "He  did,  my  lady." 

She  sighed  heavily  when  I  answered  that  last 
question,  and  said  no  more. 

We  arrived  at  the  station  with  hardly  two 
minutes  to  spare.  The  gardener  (who  had 
driven  us)  managed  about  the  luggage  while  I 
took  the  ticket.  The  whistle  of  the  train  was 
sounding  when  I  joined  her  ladyship  on  the  plat- 
form.    She  looked  very  strangely,  and  pressed 


1C2 


THE  wo:man  in  white. 


"  I   SHALL    SEE   YOU   NO   MORE,"  SHE    SAID,  IN   A    VERT   MARKED   MANNER. 

PARTING — " 


"this    is   OCR 


her  hand  over  her  heart  as  if  some  siulden  pain 
or  fright  had  overcome  lier  at  that  moment. 

"I  wish  you  were  going  with  me  !"  she  said, 
catching  eagerly  at  my  arm  when  I  gave  her 
the  ticket. 

If  there  had  been  time,  if  I  had  felt  the  day 
before  as  I  felt  then  I  would  have  made  my  ar- 
rangements to  accompany  her — even  though  the 
doing  so  had  obliged  me  to  give  Sir  Percival 
warning  on  the  spot.  As  it  was,  her  wishes,  ex- 
pressed at  the  last  moment  only,  were  express- 
ed too  late  for  me  to  comply  with  them.  She 
seemed  to  understand  this  herself  before  I  could 
explain  it,  and  did  not  repeat  her  desii-e  to  have 
me  for  a  traveling  companion.  The  train  drew 
up  at  the  platform.  She  gave  the  gardener  a 
present  for  his  children,  and  took  my  hand  in 
her  simple,  hearty  manner  before  she  got  into 
the  carriage. 

"You  have  been  very  kind  to  me  and  to  my 
sister,"  she  said ;  "  kind  when  we  were  both 
friendless.  I  shall  remember  you  gratefully  as 
long  as  I  live  to  remember  any  one.  Good-by 
— «ind  God  bless  you !" 

She  sjioke  those  words  with  a  tone  and  a  look 
which  brought  the  tears  into  my  eyes — she  spoke 
them  as  if  she  was  bidding  me  farewell  forever. 


"  Good-by,  my  lady,"  I  said,  putting  her  into 
the  carriage  and  trying  to  cheer  her;  "good- 
by,  for  the  jjresent  only  ;  good-by,  with  my  best 
and  kindest  wishes  for  hap])ier  times!" 

She  shook  her  head  and  shuddered  as  she  set- 
tled herself  in  the  cariiage.  The  guard  closed 
the  door.  "Do  you  believe  in  dreams?"  she 
whispered  to  me  at  the  window.  "^1/y  dreams 
last  night  were  dreams  I  have  never  had  before. 
The  terror  of  them  is  hanging  over  me  still." 
The  whistle  sounded  before  I  could  answer  and 
the  train  moved.  Her  pale  quiet  face  looked  at 
me  for  the  last  time,  looked  sorrowfully  and 
solemnly  from  the  window — she  waved  her  hand 
— and  I  saw  her  no  more. 

Toward  five  o'clock  on  the  afternoon  of  that 
same  day,  having  a  little  time  to  myself  in  the 
midst  of  the  household  duties  which  now  pressed 
upon  me,  I  sat  down  alone  in  my  own  room  to 
try  and  compose  my  mind  Mith  the  volume  of 
my  liusband's  Sermons.  For  the  first  time  in 
my  life  I  found  my  attention  wandering  over 
those  jiious  and  cheering  words.  Concluding 
that  Lady  Glyde's  departure  must  have  disturbed 
me  far  more  seriously  than  1  had  myself  sup- 
posed, I  put  the  book  aside  and  went  out  to 


THE  WOMAN  IN  AVHITE, 


163 


take  a  tarn  in  the  garden.  Sir  Percival  had 
not  yet  returned,  to  my  knowledge,  so  I  could 
feel  no  hesitation  about  showing  myself  in  the 
grounds. 

On  turning  the  corner  of  the  house  and  gain- 
ing a  view  of  the  garden  I  was  startled  by  see- 
ing a  stranger  walking  in  it.  The  stranger  was 
a  woman — she  was  lounging  along  the  path  with 
her  back  to  me,  and  was  gathering  the  flowers. 

As  I  approached  she  heard  me  and  turned 
round. 

My  blood  curdled  in  my  veins.  The  strange 
woman  in  the  garden  was  Mrs.  Kubelle. 

I  covild  neither  move  nor  speak.  She  came 
np  to  me  as  composedly  as  ever  with  her  flowers 
in  her  hand. 

"What  is  the  matter,  ma'am?"  she  sail, 
quietly. 

"  You  here!"  I  gasped  out.  "Not  gone  to 
London  !     Not  gone  to  Cumberland  !" 

Mrs.  Eubelle  smellcd  at  her  flowers  with  a 
smile  of  malicious  pity. 

"Certainly  not,"  she  said.  "I  have  never 
left  Blackwater  Park." 

I  summoned  breath  enough  and  courage 
enough  for  another  question. 

"Where  is  Miss  Halcombe?" 

Mrs.  Eubelle  fairly  lauglied  at  me  this  time; 
and  answered  in  these  words : 

"Miss  Halcombe,  ma'am,  has  not  left  Black- 
water  Park  either." 

Miss  Halcombe  had  never  left  Blackwater 
Park ! 

When  I  heard  those  words  all  my  thoughts 
were  startled  back  on  the  instant  to  my  jiarting 
with  Lady  Glyde.    I  can  hardly  say  I  reproached 


myself;  but  at  that  moment  I  think  I  would 
have  given  many  a  year's  hard  savings  to  have 
known  four  hours  earlier  what  I  knew  now. 

Mrs.  Kubelle  waited,  quietly  arranging  her 
nosegay,  as  if  she  exjjected  me  to  say  some- 
thing. 

I  could  say  nothing.  I  thought  of  Lady 
Clyde's  worn-out  energies  and  weakly  health ; 
and  I  trembled  for  the  time  when  the  shock 
of  the  discovery  that  I  had  made  would  fall  on 
her.  For  a  minute  or  more  my  fears  for  the 
poor  lady  silenced  me.  At  the  end  of  that 
time  Mrs.  Kubelle  looked  up  sideways  from  her 
flowers,  and  said,  "Here  is  bir  Percival,  ma'am, 
returned  from  his  ride." 

I  saw  him  as  soon  as  she  did.  He  came  to- 
ward us,  slashing  viciously  at  the  flowers  with 
his  riding-whip.  When  he  was  near  enough  to 
see  my  face  he  stopped,  struck  at  his  boot  with 
tlie  whip,  and  burst  out  laughing,  so  harshly 
and  so  violently  that  the  birds  flew  away,  star- 
tled, from  the  tree  by  which  he  stood. 

"Well,  Mrs.  Michelson,"  he  said,  "you  have 
found  it  out  at  last — have  you?" 

I  made  no  reply.    He  turned  to  Mrs.  Eubelle. 

"When  did  you  show  yourself  in  the  garden  ?" 

"I  showed  myself  about  half  an  hour  ago. 
Sir.  You  said  I  might  take  my  liberty  again  as 
soon  as  Lady  Glyde  had  gone  away  to  London." 

"  Quite  right.  I  don't  blame  you — I  only 
asked  the  question."  He  waited  a  moment, 
and  then  addressed  himself  once  more  to  me. 
"  You  can't  believe  it,  can  you?"  he  said,  mock- 
ingly. "Here!  come  along  and  see  for  your- 
self." 

He  led  the  way  round  to  the  front  of  the 
house.  I  followed  him,  and  Mrs.  Eubelle  fol- 
lowed me.  After  passing  through  the  iron  gates 
lie  stopped,  and  ])ointed  with  his  whip  to  the 
disused  middle  wing  of  the  building. 

"There!"  he  said.  "Look  up  at  the  first 
floor.  You  know  the  old  Elizabethan  bedrooms? 
Miss  Halcombe  is  snug  and  safe  in  one  of  the 
best  of  them  at  this  moment.  Take  her  in,  Mrs. 
Eubelle  (you  have  got  your  key  ?) ;  take  Mrs. 
Michelson  in,  and  let  her  own  eyes  satisfy  her 
that  there  is  no  deception  this  time." 

The  tone  in  which  he  spoke  to  me,  and  the 
minute  or  two  that  bad  jiassed  since  we  left  the 
garden,  helped  me  to  recover  my  spirits  a  little. 
What  I  might  have  done  at  this  critical  moment, 
if  all  my  life  had  been  ])assed  in  service,  I  can 
not  say.  As  it  was,  possessing  the  feelings,  the 
principles,  and  the  bringing-up  of  a  lady,  I  could 
not  hesitate  about  the  right  course  to  pursue. 
My  duty  to  myself  and  my  duty  to  Lady  Glyde 
alike  forbade  me  to  remain  in  the  employment 
of  a  man  who  had  shamefully  deceived  us  both 
by  a  series  of  atrocious  falsehoods. 

"I  must  beg  permission,  Sir  Percival,  to 
speak  a  few  words  to  you  in  private,"  I  said. 
"Having  done  so,  I  shall  be  ready  to  proceed 
witli  this  person  to  Miss  Halcombe's  room." 

Mrs.  Eubelle,  whom  I  had  indicated  by  a 
slight  turn  of  my  head,  insolently  snitfed  at  her 
nosegay,  and  walked  away,  with  great  delibera- 
tion, toward  the  house  door. 

"Well!"  said  Sir  Percival,  shaqoly,  "what 
is  it  now  ?" 

"I  wish  to  mention,  Sir,  that  I  am  desirous 
of  resigning  the  situation  I  now  hold  at  Black- 
water  Park."    That  was  litei'ally  how  I  put  it. 


164 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


I  was  resolved  that  the  first  words  sjioken  in  his 
])resence  sliould  be  words  which  expressed  my 
iutention  to  leave  his  service. 

He  eyed  me  with  one  of  his  blackest  looks, 
and  thrust  his  hands  savagely  into  the  pockets 
of  his  riding-coat. 

"Why?"  he  said;  "whv,  I  should  like  to 
know?" 

"It  is  not  for  me,  SirPercival,  to  express  an 
opinion  on  what  has  taken  jilace  in  this  house. 
I  desire  to  give  no  offense.  I  merely  wish  to 
say  that  I  do  not  feel  it  consistent  with  my  duty 
to  Lady  Clyde  and  to  myself  to  remain  any 
longer  in  your  service." 

"Is  it  consistent  with  your  duty  to  me  to 
stand  there  casting  suspicion  on  me  to  my 
face  ?"  he  broke  out,  in  his  most  violent  manner. 
"  I  see  what  you're  driving  at.  You  liave  taken 
your  own  mean,  underhand  view  of  an  innocent 
deception  practiced  on  Lady  Clyde  for  her  own 
good.  It  was  essential  to  her  health  that  she 
should  have  a  change  of  air  immediatelj',  and 
you  know  as  well  as  I  do  she  would  never  have 
gone  away  if  she  had  known  Miss  Halcombe 
was  still  left  here.  She  has  been  deceived  in  her 
own  interests,  and  I  don't  care  who  knows  it. 
Go,  if  you  like — there  are  plenty  of  house- 
keepers as  good  as  you  to  be  had  for  the  asking. 
Go  wlicn  you  please ;  but  take  care  how  you 
spread  scandals  about  me  and  my  affairs  when 
you're  out  of  my  service.  Tell  the  truth,  and 
nothing  but  the  truth,  or  it  will  be  the  worse  for 
you !  I^ee  Miss  Halcombe  for  3'ourself ;  see  if 
she  hasn't  been  as  well  taken  care  of  in  one  part 
of  the  house  as  in  the  other.  Kemember  the 
Doctors  own  orders  that  Lady  Clyde  was  to  have 
a  cliange  of  air  at  the  earliest  ]iossible  oppor- 
tunity. Bear  all  that  well  in  mind — and  then 
say  any  tiling  against  me  and  my  proceedings 
if  you  dare !" 

He  poured  out  these  words  fiercely,  all  in  a 
breatli,  walking  backward  and  forward,  and 
striking  about  him  in  the  air  with  his  whip. 

Nothing  that  he  said  or  did  shook  my  ojiinion 
of  the  disgraceful  series  of  falsehoods  that  he  had 
told  in  my  presence  the  day  before ;  or  of  the 
cruel  deception  by  which  he  had  separated  Lady 
Glyde  from  her  sister,  and  had  sent  her  useless- 
ly to  London,  when  she  was  half  distracted  with 
anxiety  on  IMiss  Halcombe's  account.  I  nat- 
urally kept  these  thoughts  to  myself,  and  said 
nothing  more  to  irritate  him  ;  but  I  was  not  the 
less  resolved  to  persist  in  my  purpose.  A  soft 
answer  turneth  away  wrath;  and  I  suppressed 
my  own  feelings  accordingly,  when  it  was  my 
turn  to  reply. 

"While  I  am  in  yovu*  service.  Sir  Percival," 
I  said,  "  I  hope  I  know  my  duty  well  enough 
not  to  inquire  into  your  motives.  When  I  am 
out  of  your  service,  I  hope  I  know  my  own 
place  well  enough  not  to  speak  of  matters  which 
don't  concern  me — " 

"When  do  you  want  to  go?"  he  asked,  in- 
terrupting me  without  ceremony.  "Don't  sup- 
pose I  am  anxious  to  keep  you — don't  suppose 
I  care  about  your  leaving  the  house.  I  am  jjer- 
fectly  fair  and  ojien  in  this  matter,  from  first  to 
last.     Vv'hcn  do  you  want  to  go  ?" 

"  I  should  wish  to  leave  at  your  earliest  con- 
venience, Sir  Percival." 

"  My  convenience  has  nothing  to  do  with  it. 
I  shall  be  out  of  tiie  house  for  good  and  all  to- 


mon-ow  morning  ;  and  I  can  settle  your  ac- 
counts to-night.  If  you  want  to  study  any 
body's  convenience,  it  had  better  be  Miss  Hal- 
combe's. Mrs.  Eubelle's  time  is  up  to-day;  and 
she  has  reasons  for  wishing  to  be  in  London 
to-night.  If  you  go  at  once  Miss  Halcombe 
won't  have  a  soul  left  here  to  look  after  her." 

I  hope  it  is  unnecessary  for  me  to  say  that  I 
was  quite  incajiable  of  deserting  Miss  Halcombe 
in  such  an  emergency  as  had  noAv  befallen  Lady 
Clyde  and  herself.  After  first  distinctly  ascer- 
taining from  Sir  Percival  that  ]\Irs.  Eubclle  was 
certain  to  leave  at  once  if  I  took  her  jdace,  and 
after  also  obtaining  permission  to  arrange  for 
Mr.  Dawson's  resuming  his  attendance  on  his 
patient,  I  willingly  consented  to  remain  at  Black- 
water  Park  until  Miss  Halcombe  no  longer  re- 
quired my  services.  It  was  settled  that  I  should 
give  Sir  Percival's  solicitor  a  week's  notice  be- 
fore I  left,  and  that  he  was  to  undertake  the 
necessary  arrangements  for  appointing  my  suc- 
cessor. The  matter  was  discussed  in  very  few 
words.  At  its  conclusion  Sir  Percival  abruptly 
turned  on  his  heel,  and  left  me  free  to  join  Mrs. 
Rubelle.  That  singular  foreign  person  had  been 
sitting  composedly  on  the  door-step  all  this 
time,  waiting  till  I  could  follow  her  to  Miss  Hal- 
combe's room. 

I  had  hardly  walked  half-way  toward  the 
house  when  Sir  Percival,  who  had  withdrawn 
in  the  o]>posite  direction,  suddenly  stopped  and 
called  me  back. 

"Why  are  you  leaving  my  service  ?"  he  asked. 

The  question  was  so  extraordinary,  after  what 
'  had  just  passed  between  us,  that  I  hardly  knew 
what  to  say  in  answer  to  it. 

"Mind!  /  don't  know  why  j'on  are  going," 
he  went  on.  "You  must  give  a  reason  for 
leaving  me,  I  suppose,  when  you  get  another 
situation.  What  reason  ?  The  breaking-up  of 
the  family  ?     Is  that  it  ?" 

"  There  can  be  no  positive  objection,  Sir  Per- 
cival, to  that  reason — " 

"  Very  well !  That's  all  I  want  to  know.  If 
people  apply  for  your  character,  that's  your  rea- 
son, stated  by  yourself.  You  go  in  consequence 
of  the  breaking-up  of  the  famil\'." 

He  turned  away  again  before  I  could  say  an- 
other word,  and  walked  out  rajiidiy  into  the 
grounds.  His  manner  was  as  strange  as  his 
language.     I  acknowledge  he  alarmed  me. 

Even  the  patience  of  Mrs.  Kubelle  was  get- 
ting exhausted  when  I  joined  her  at  the  house 
iloor. 

"At  last !"  she  said,  with  a  shrug  of  her  lean 
foreign  shoulders.  She  led  the  way  into  tho 
inhabited  side  of  the  house,  ascended  the  stairs, 
and  opened  with  her  key  the  door  at  the  end 
of  the  passage,  which  communicated  with  the 
old  Elizabethan  rooms — a  door  never  jtrevious- 
ly  used,  in  my  time,  at  Biackwatcr  I'ark.  The 
rooms  themselves  I  knew  well,  having  entered 
them  myself,  on  various  occasions,  from  the 
other  side  of  the  house.  Mrs.  Kubelle  stojiped 
at  the  third  door  along  the  old  gallery,  handed 
me  the  key  of  it,  with  tiie  key  of  the  door  of 
communication,  and  told  me  I  should  find  iMiss 
Halcombe  in  that  room.  Before  I  went  in  I 
thought  it  desirable  to  nuike  her  understand  that 
her  attendance  had  ceased.  Accordingly,  1  told 
her  in  plain  words  that  the  charge  of  the  sick 
ladv  henceforth  devolved  cntirelv  on  mvsclf. 


THE  WO.AIAN  IN  WHITE. 


I  Go 


"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it,  ma'am,"  said  Mrs. 
Rtibelle.      ''I  want  to  <2;o  very  much." 

"Do  you  leave  to-day?"  I  asked,  to  make 
sure  of  her. 

"  Now  that  you  have  taken  the  charge,  ma'am, 
I  leave  in  half  an  hour's  time.  Sir  Percival  has 
kindly  placed  at  my  disposition  the  gardener 
and  the  chaise  whenever  I  want  them.  I  shall 
(vant  them  in  half  an  hour's  time  to  go  to  the 
station.  I  am  packed  up,  in  anticipation,  al- 
ready.    I  wish  you  good-day,  ma'am." 

She  dropped  a  brisk  courtesy,  and  walked  back 
along  the  gallery,  humming  a  little  tune,  and 
keeping  time  to  it  cheerfully  with  the  nosegay 
in  her  hand.  I  am  sincerely  thankful  to  say 
that  was  the  last  I  saw  of  ISIrs.  Rubelle. 

When  I  went  into  the  room  ]Miss  Halcombe 
was  asleep.  I  looked  at  her  anxiously  as  she 
lay  in  the  dismal,  high,  old-fashioned  bed.  She 
was  certainly  not  in  any  respect  altered  for  the 
worse  since  I  had  seen  her  last.  She  had  not 
been  neglected,  I  am  bound  to  admit,  in  any  way 
that  I  could  perceive.  The  room  was  dreary, 
and  dusty,  and  dark ;  but  the  window  (looking 
on  a  solitary  court-yard  at  the  back  of  the  house) 
was  opened  to  let  in  the  fresh  air,  and  all  that 
could  be  done  to  make  the  place  comfortable 
had  been  done.  The  whole  cruelty  of  Sir  Per- 
cival's  deception  had  fallen  on  poor  Lady  Glyde. 
The  only  ill-usage  wliich  either  he  or  Mrs.  Eu- 
belle  had  inflicted  on  Miss  Halcombe  consisted, 
so  far  as  I  could  see,  in  the  first  offense  of  hiding 
her  away. 

I  stole  back,  leaving  the  sick  lady  still  peace- 
fully asleep,  to  give  the  gardener  instructions 
about  bringing  the  Doctor.  I  begged  the  man, 
after  he  had  taken  Mrs.  Rubelle  to  the  station, 
to  drive  round  by  Mr.  Dawson's  and  leave  a  mes- 
sage, in  ray  name,  asking  him  to  call  and  see 
me.  I  knew  he  would  come  on  my  account,  and 
I  knew  he  would  remain  when  he  found  Count 
Fosco  had  left  the  house. 

In  due  course  of  time  the  gardener  returned, 
and  said  that  he  had  driven  round  by  Mr.  Daw- 
son's residence  after  leaving  Mrs.  Rubelle  at  the 
station.  The  Doctor  sent  me  word  that  he  was 
poorly  in  health  himself,  but  that  he  would  call, 
if  possible,  the  next  morning. 

Having  delivered  his  message  the  gardener 
was  about  to  withdraw,  but  I  stopped  him  to 
request  that  he  would  come  back  before  dark, 
and  sit  up  that  night  in  one  of  the  empty  bed- 
rooms, so  as  to  be  within  call  in  case  I  wanted 
him.  He  understood  readily  enough  my  un- 
willingness to  be  left  alone  all  night  in  the  most 
desolate  part  of  that  desolate  house,  and  we  ar- 
ranged that  he  should  come  in  between  eight 
<ind  nine.  He  came  punctually  ;  and  I  found 
cause  to  be  thankful  that  I  had  adopted  the  pre- 
caution of  calling  him  in.  Before  midnight  Sir 
Percival's  strange  temper  broke  out  in  the  most 
violent  and  most  alarming  manner;  and  if  the 
gardener  had  not  been  on  the  spot  to  pacify 
him  on  the  instant,  I  am  afraid  to  think  what 
might  have  happened. 

Almost  all  the  afternoon  and  evening  he  had 
been  walking  about  the  house  and  grounds  in 
an  unsettled,  excitable  manner;  having  in  all 
probability,  as  I  thought,  taken  an  excessive 
quantity  of  wine  at  his  solitary  dinner.  How- 
ever that  may  be,  I  heard  his  voice  calling  loud- 
ly and  angrily  in  the  new  wing  of  the  house  as 


I  was  taking  a  turn  backward  and  forward  along 
the  gallery  the  last  thing  at  night.  The  gar- 
dener immediately  ran  down  to  him ;  and  I 
closed  the  door  of  communication,  to  keep  the 
alarm,  if  possible,  from  reaching  Miss  Hal- 
combe's  ears.  It  was  full  half  an  hour  before 
the  gardener  came  back.  He  declared  that  his 
master  was  quite  out  of  his  senses — not  through 
the  excitement  of  drink,  as  I  had  su]jposed,  but 
through  a  kind  of  panic  or  frenzy  of  mind  for 
which  it  was  imjiossible  to  account.  He  had 
found  Sir  Percival  walking  backward  and  for- 
ward by  himself  in  the  hall,  sweai'ing,  with  ev- 
ery appearance  of  the  most  violent  passion,  that 
he  would  not  stop  another  minute  alone  in  such 
a  dungeon  as  his  own  house,  and  that  he  would 
take  the  first  stage  of  his  journey  immediately, 
in  the  middle  of  the  night.  The  gardener,  on 
approaching  him,  had  been  hunted  out,  with 
oaths  and  threats,  to  get  the  horse  and  chaise 
ready  instantly.  In  a  quarter  of  an  hour  Sir 
Percival  had  joined  him  in  the  yard,  had  jump- 
ed into  the  chaise,  and,  lashing  the  horse  into 
a  gallop,  had  driven  himself  away  with  his  face 
as  pale  as  ashes  in  the  moonlight.  The  gar- 
dener had  heard  him  shouting  and  cursing  at 
the  lodge-keeper  to  get  up  and  open  the  gate — 
had  heard  the  wheels  roll  furiously  on  again,  in 
the  still  night,  when  the  gate  was  unlocked — and 
knew  no  more. 

The  next  day,  or  a  day  or  two  after,  I  for- 
get which,  the  chaise  was  brought  back  from 
Knowlesbury,  our  nearest  town,  by  the  hostler  at 
the  old  inn.  Sir  Percival  had  stopped  there, 
and  had  afterward  left  by  the  train — for  what 
destination  the  man  could  not  tell.  I  never 
received  anj-  further  information,  either  from 
himself  or  from  any  one  else,  of  Sir  Percival's 
proceedings ;  and  I  am  not  even  aware,  at  this 
moment,  whether  he  is  in  England  or  out  of  it. 
He  and  I  have  not  met  since  he  drove  away, 
like  an  escaped  criminal,  from  his  own  house ; 
and  it  is  my  fervent  hope  and  prayer  that  we 
may  never  meet  again, 

]\Iy  own  part  of  this  sad  family  story  is  now 
drawing  to  an  end. 

I  have  been  informed  that  the  particulars  of 
Miss  Halcombe's  waking,  and  of  what  passed 
between  us  when  she  fumid  me  sitting  by  her 
bedside,  are  not  material  to  the  purpose  whicli 
is  to  be  answered  by  the  present  nai-rative.  It 
will  be  sufficient  for  me  to  say,  in  this  place, 
that  she  was  not  herself  conscious  of  the  means 
adopted  to  remove  her  from  the  inhabited  to 
the  uninhabited  part  of  the  house.  She  was  in 
a  deep  sleep  at  the  time,  whether  naturally  or 
artificially  jjroduced  she  could  not  say.  In  my 
absence  at  Torquay,  and  in  the  absence  of  all 
the  resident  servants,  except  Margaret  Porcher 
(who  was  perpetually  eating,  drinking,  or  sleep- 
ing when  she  was  not  at  work),  the  secret  transfer 
of  Miss  Halcombe  from  one  part  of  the  house 
to  the  other  was  no  doubt  easily  performed. 
Mrs.  Rubelle  (as  I  discovered  for  myself  in 
looking  about  the  room)  had  provisions  and  all 
other  necessaries,  together  with  the  means  of 
heating  water,  broth,  and  so  on,  without  kin- 
dling a  fire,  placed  at  her  disposal  during  the 
few  days  of  her  imprisonment  with  the  sick 
lady.  She  had  declined  to  answer  the  ques- 
tions which  Miss  Halcombe  naturally  put ;  but 


LGii 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


had  not,  in  otlier  respects,  treated  her  with  un- 
kindness  or  neglect.  The  disgrace  of  lending 
herself  to  a  vile  deception  is  the  only  disgrace 
with  which  I  can  conscientiously  charge  Mrs. 
Eubelle. 

I  need  write  no  particulars  (and  I  am  relieved 
to  know  it)  of  the  effect  produced  on  Miss  Hal- 
combe  by  the  news  of  Lady  Glyde's  departure, 
or  by  the  far  more  melancholy  tidings  which 
reached  us  only  too  soon  afterward  at  Black- 
water  Park.  In  both  cases  I  prepared  her  mind 
beforehand  as  gently  and  as  carefully  as  possi- 
ble ;  having  the  Doctor's  advice  to  guide  me  in 
the  last  case  only,  through  Mr.  Dawson's  being 
too  unwell  to  come  to  the  house  for  some  days 
after  I  had  sent  for  him.  It  was  a  sad  time,  a 
time  which  it  afflicts  me  to  think  of  or  to  write 
of  now.  The  precious  blessings  of  religious  con- 
solation which  I  endeavored  to  convey  were  long 
in  reaching  Miss  Halcombe's  heart ;  but  I  hope 
and  believe  they  came  home  to  her  at  last.  I 
never  left  her  till  her  strength  was  restored. 
The  train  which  took  me  away  from  that  mis- 
erable house  was  the  train  which  took  her  away 
also.  We  parted  very  mournfully  in  London. 
I  remained  with  a  relative  at  Islington,  and 
she  went  on  to  Mr.  Fairlie's  house  in  Cumber- 
land. 

I  have  only  a  few  lines  more  to  write  before  I 
close  this  painful  statement.  They  are  dictated 
by  a  sense  of  duty. 

In  the  first  place,  I  wish  to  record  my  own 
personal  conviction  that  no  blame  whatever,  in 
connection  with  the  events  which  I  have  now  re- 
lated, attaches  to  Count  Fosco.  I  am  informed 
that  a  dreadful  suspicion  has  been  raised,  and 
that  some  very  serious  constructions  are  j)laced 
upon  his  lordship's  conduct.  My  persuasion  of 
the  Count's  innocence  remains,  however,  quite 
unshaken.  If  he  assisted  Sir  Percival  in  send- 
ing me  to  Torquay,  he  assisted  under  a  delusion, 
for  which,  as  a  foreigner  and  a  stranger,  he  was 
not  to  blame.  If  he  was  concerned  in  bringing 
Mrs.  Eubelle  to  Blackwater  Park,  it  was  his 
misfortune,  and  not  his  fault,  when  that  foreign 
person  was  base  enough  to  assist  a  deception 
planned  and  carried  out  by  the  master  of  the 
house.  I  protest,  in  the  interests  of  morality, 
against  blame  being  gratuitously  and  wantonly 
attached  to  the  proceedings  of  the  Count. 

In  the  second  place,  I  desire  to  express  my  re- 
gret at  my  own  inability  to  remember  the  pre- 
cise day  on  which  Lady  Glyde  left  Blackwater 
Park  for  London.  I  am  told  that  it  is  of  the 
last  importance  to  ascertain  the  exact  date  of 
that  lamentable  journey ;  and  I  have  anxiously 
taxed  my  memory  to  recall  it.  The  effort  has 
been  in  vain.  I  can  only  remember  now  that 
it  was  toward  the  latter  part  of  July.  We  all 
know  the  ditffculty  after  a  lapse  of  time  of  fix- 
ing precisely  on  a  past  date  unless  it  has  been  pre- 
viously written  down.  That  difficulty  is  greatly 
increased  in  my  case  by  the  alarming  and  con- 
fusing events  which  took  place  aliout  the  period 
of  Lady  Glyde's  departure.  I  heartily  wish  I 
had  made  a  memorandum  at  the  time.  I  hearti- 
ly wish  my  memory  of  the  date  was  as  vivid  as 
my  memory  of  that  ])()()r  lady's  face  when  it 
looked  at  mc  sorrowfully  for  the  last  time  from 
the  carriage  window. 


THE  NARKATIVE  OF  HESTER  PINHORN, 
COOK  IN  THE  SERVICE  OF  COUNT 
FOSCO. 

[taken  down  from  her  own  statement.] 

I  AM  sorry  to  say  that  I  have  never  learned  to 
read  or  write.  I  have  been  a  hard-working  wo- 
man all  my  life,  and  have  kept  a  good  character. 
I  know  that  it  is  a  sin  and  wickedness  to  say 
the  thing  which  is  not,  and  I  will  truly  beware 
of  doing  so  on  this  occasion.  All  that  I  know 
I  will  tell ;  and  I  humbly  beg  the  gentleman 
who  takes  this  down  to  ]jut  my  language  right 
as  he  goes  on,  and  to  make  allowances  for  my 
being  no  scholar. 

In  this  last  summer  I  happened  to  be  out  of 
place  (through  no  fault  of  my  own),  and  I  heard 
of  a  situation,  as  plain  cook,  at  Number  Five, 
Forest  Road,  St.  John's  Wood.  I  took  the 
place  on  trial.  My  master's  name  was  Fosco. 
My  mistress  was  an  English  lady.  He  was 
Count,  and  she  was  Countess.  They  had  a  girl 
to  do  house-maid's  Mork  when  I  got  there.  She 
was  not  over  clean  or  tidy — but  there  was  no 
harm  in  her.  I  and  she  were  the  only  servants 
in  the  house. 

I  had  not  been  very  long  in  my  new  place 
when  the  house-maid  came  down  stairs  and  said 
company  was  expected  from  the  country.  The 
company  was  my  mistress's  niece,  and  the  back 
bedroom  on  the  first  floor  was  got  ready  for  her. 
My  mistress  mentioned  to  me  that  Lady  Glyde 
(that  was  her  name)  was  in  poor  health,  and 
that  I  must  be  particular  in  my  cooking  accord- 
ingly. She  was  to  come  the  next  day,  or  it 
might  be  the  day  after,  or  it  might  be  even 
longer  than  that.  I  am  sorry  to  say  it's  no  use 
asking  me  about  days  of  the  month  and  such- 
like. Except  Sundays,  half  my  time  I  take  no 
heed  of  them,  being  a  hard-working  Avoman  and 
no  scholar.  All  I  know  is,  it  certainly  was  not 
long  before  Lady  Glyde  came,  and,  when  she 
did  come,  a  fine  fright  she  gave  us  all  surely. 
I  don't  know  how  master  brought  her  to  the 
house,  being  at  work  at  the  time.  But  he  did 
bring  her  in  the  afternoon,  I  think ;  and  the 
house-maid  opened  the  door  to  them  and  showed 
them  into  the  parlor.  Before  she  had  been 
long  down  in  the  kitchen  again  with  me  we 
heard  a  hurry-skurry  up  stairs,  and  the  bell  ring- 
ing like  mad  and  my  mistress's  voice  calling 
out  for  help. 

We  both  ran  up,  and  there  we  saw  the  lady 
laid  on  the  sofa,  with  her  face  ghastly  white, 
and  her  hands  fast  clenched,  and  her  head 
drawn  down  to  one  side.  She  had  been  taken 
with  a  sudden  fright,  my  mistress  said;  and 
master  he  told  us  she  was  in  a  fit  of  convulsions. 
I  ran  out,  knowing  the  neighborhood  a  little 
better  than  the  rest  of  them,  to  fetch  the  near- 
est doctor's  help.  The  nearest  hcl])  was  at 
Goodricke's  and  Garth's,  who  worked  together 
as  partners,  and  had  a  good  name  and  connec- 
tion, as  I  have  heard,  all  round  St.  John's 
Wood.  Mr.  Goodricke  was  in,  and  he  came 
back  with  me  directly. 

It  was  some  time  before  he  could  make  him- 
self of  much  use.  The  j)oor  unfortunate  lady 
fell  out  of  one  fit  into  anotlicr — and  went  on  so 
till  she  was  quite  wearied  out,  and  as  helpless 
as  a  new-born  babe.  We  then  got  her  to  bed. 
Mr.  Goodricke  went  away  to  his  house  for  medi- 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


167 


cine,  and  came  back  an;ain  in  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  or  less.  Besides  tiie  medicine  he  brought 
a  bit  of  hollow  maliogany  wood  with  him  sha]jed 
like  a  kind  of  trumpet,  and,  after  waiting  a  little 
while,  he  put  one  end  over  the  lady's  heart  and 
the  other  to  his  ear,  and  listened  carefully'. 
When  he  had  done  he  says  to  my  mistress,  who 
was  in  the  room,  "  This  is  a  very  serious  case," 
he  says ;  "  I  recommend  you  to  write  to  Lady 
Glyde'^'s  friends  directly."  My  mistress  says  to 
him,  "Is  it  heart-disease?"  And  he  says 
"  Yes ;  heart-disease  of  a  most  dangerous  kind." 
He  told  her  exactly  what  he  thought  was  the 
matter,  which  I  was' not  clever  enough  to  under- 
stand. But  I  know  this,  he  ended  by  saying 
that  he  was  afraid'neither  his  help  nor  any  other 
doctor's  help  was  likely  to  be  of  much  sei'vice. 

My  mistress  took  this  ill  news  more  quietly 
than  my  master.  He  was  a  big,  fat,  odd  sort 
of  elderly  man,  who  kept  birds  and  white  mice, 
and  s])oke  to  them  as  if  they  were  so  many 
Christian  children.  He  seemed  terribly  cut 
up  by  what  had  happened.  "  Ah  !  poor  Lady 
Clyde!  poor  dear  Lady  Clyde!"  he  says,  and 
went  stalking  about,  wringing  his  fat  hands 
more  like  a  play-actor  than  a  gentleman.  For 
one  question  my  mistress  asked  the  doctor 
about  the  lady's  chances  of  getting  round  he 
asked  a  good  fifty  at  least.  I  declare  he  quite 
tormented  us  all ;  and,  when  he  was  quiet  at 
last,  out  he  went  into  the  bit  of  back  garden, 
picking  trumpery  little  nosegays,  and  asking  mc 
to  take  them  up  stairs  and  make  the  sick-room 
look  pretty  with  them.  As  if  that  did  any 
good  !  I  think  he  must  have  been  at  times  a 
little  soft  in  his  head.  But  he  was  not  a  bad 
master:  he  had  a  monstrous  civil  tongue  of  his 
own,  and  a  jolly,  easy,  coaxing  way  with  him. 
I  liked  him  a  deal  better  than  my  mistress. 
She  was  a  hard  one,  if  ever  there  was  a  hard 
one  yet. 

Toward  night-time  the  lady  roused  up  a  lit- 
tle. She  had  been  so  wearied  out  before  that 
by  the  convulsions,  tliat  she  never  stirred  hand 
or  foot,  or  sjjoke  a  word  to  any  body.  She 
moved  in  the  bed  now,  and  stared  about  her  at 
the  room  and  us  in  it.  She  must  have  been  a 
nice-looking  lady  when  well,  with  light  hair, 
and  blue  eyes,  and  all  that.  Her  rest  was 
troubled  at  night — at  least,  so  I  heard  from  my 
mistress,  who  sat  up  alone  with  her.  I  only 
went  in  once  before  going  to  bed,  to  see  if  I 
could  be  of  any  use;  and  then  she  was  talk- 
ing to  herself  in  a  confused,  rambling  manner. 
She  seemed  to  want  sadly  to  speak  to  some- 
body who  was  absent  from  her  somewhere.  I 
couldn't  catch  the  name  the  first  time ;  and  the 
second  time  master  knocked  at  the  door,  with 
his  regular  mouthful  of  questions,  and  another 
of  his  trumpery  nosegays.  When  I  went  in 
early  the  next  morning  the  lady  was  clean 
worn  out  again,  and  lay  in  a  kind  of  faint 
sleep.  Mr.  Coodricke  brought  his  ]iartner,  ]\Ir. 
Garth,  with  him  to  advise.  They  said  she  must 
not  be  disturbed  out  of  her  i-est  on  any  account. 
They  asked  my  mistress  a  many  questions,  at 
the  other  end  of  the  room,  about  what  the 
lady's  health  had  been  in  past  times,  and  who 
had  attended  her,  and  whether  she  had  ever 
suffered  much,  and  long  together,  under  distress 
of  mind.  I  remember  my  mistress  said  "Yes" 
to  that  last  question.    And  Mr.  Coodricke  look- 


ed at  Mr.  Carth  and  shook  his  head,  and  Mr. 
Carth  looked  at  Mr.  Coodricke  and  shook  his 
head.  They  seemed  to  think  that  the  distress 
might  have  something  to  do  with  the  mischief 
at  the  lady's  heart.  She  was  but  a  frail  thing 
to  look  at,  poor  creature !  Very  little  strength, 
at  any  time,  I  should  say — very  little  strengtii. 

Later  on  the  same  morning,  when  she  woke, 
the  lady  took  a  sudden  turn,  and  got,  seeming- 
ly, a  great  deal  better.  I  was  not  let  in  again 
to  see  her,  no  more  was  the  house-maid,  for  the 
reason  that  she  was  not  to  be  disturbed  by  stran- 
gers. What  I  heard  of  her  being  better  was 
through  my  master.  He  was  in  wonderful 
good  spirits  about  the  change,  and  looked  in 
at  the  kitchen  window  from  the  garden,  with 
his  great  big  curly-brimmed  white  hat  on,  to 
go  out.  "Good  Mrs.  Cook,"  says  he,  "Lady 
Clyde  is  better.  My  mind  is  more  easy  than  it 
was  ;  and  I  am  going  out  to  stretch  my  big  legs 
with  a  sunny  little  summer  walk.  Shall  I  or- 
der for  you,  shall  I  market  for  you,  Mrs.  Cook? 
What  are  you  making  there?  A  nice  tart  for 
dinner  ?  Much  crust,  if  you  please — much  crisp 
crust,  my  dear,  that  melts  and  crumbles  deli- 
cious in  the  mouth."  That  was  his  way.  He 
was  past  sixtj',  and  fond  of  pastry.  Just  think 
of  that ! 

The  doctor  came  again  in  the  forenoon,  and 
saw  for  himself  that  Lady  Clyde  had  woke  up 
better.  He  forbid  us  to  talk  to  her,  or  to  let 
her  talk  to  us,  in  case  she  was  that  way  dis- 
posed, saying  she  must  be  kept  quiet  before  all 
things,  and  encouraged  to  sleep  as  much  as 
possible.  She  did  not  seem  to  want  to  talk 
whenever  I  saw  her  —  except  overnight,  when 
I  couldn't  make  out  what  she  was  saying — she 
seemed  too  much  worn  down.  Mr.  Coodricke 
was  not  nearly  in  such  good  spirits  about  her 
as  master,  fie  said  nothing  when  he  came 
down  stairs  except  that  he  would  call  again  at 
five  o'clock.  About  that  time  (which  was  be- 
fore master  came  home  again)  the  bell  rang  hard 
from  the  bedroom,  and  my  mistress  ran  out  into 
the  landing,  and  called  to  me  to  go  for  Mr. 
Coodricke,  and  tell  him  the  lady  had  fainted. 
I  got  on  my  bonnet  and  shawl,  when,  as  good 
luck  would  have  it,  the  doctor  himself  came  to 
the  house  for  his  jiromised  visit. 

I  let  him  in,  and  went  up  stairs  along  with 
him.  "  Lady  Clyde  was  just  as  usual,"  says  my 
mistress  to  him  at  the  door;  "she  was  awake, 
and  looking  about  her  in  a  strange,  forlorn  man- 
ner, when  I  heard  her  give  a  sort  of  half  cry. 
and  she  fainted  in  a  moment."  The  doctor 
went  up  to  the  bed,  and  stooped  down  over  the 
sick  lady.  He  looked  very  serious,  all  on  a 
sudden,  at  the  sight  of  her,  and  put  his  hand 
on  her  heart. 

My  mistress  stared  hard  in  Mr.  Goodricke's 
face.  "Not  dead!"  says  she,  whisiiering,  and 
turning  all  of  a  tremble  from  liead  to  foot. 

"  Y'es,"  says  the  doctor,  very  quiet  and  grave. 
"Dead.  I  was  afraid  it  would  happen  sudden- 
ly when  I  examined  her  heart  yesterday."  My 
mistress  stepped  back  from  the  bedside  while  he 
was  speaking,  and  trembled  and  trembled  again. 
"Dead!"  she  whispers  to  herself;  "dead  so 
suddenly !  dead  so  soon !  What  will  the  Count 
s.ay?"  Mr.  Coodricke  advised  her  to  go  down 
stairs  and  quiet  herself  a  little.  "You  have 
been  sitting  up  all  night,"  says  he,  "and  your 


168 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


/     / 


nerves  are  shaken.  This  person,"  says  he, 
meaning  me,  "  this  person  will  stay  in  the  room 
till  I  can  send  for  the  necessary  assistance." 
My  mistress  did  as  he  told  her.  "I  must  pre- 
pare the  Count,"  she  says;  "I  must  carefully 
prepare  the  Count."  And  so  she  left  us,  shak- 
ing from  head  to  foot,  and  went  out. 

"Your  master  is  a  foreigner,"  says  Mr.  Good- 
ricke,  when  my  mistress  had  left  ns.  "  Does 
he  iinderstand  ahout  registering  the  death  ?" 
"I  can't  rightly  tell.  Sir,"  says  I,  "but  I  should 
think  not."  The  doctor  considered  a  minute, 
and  then,  says  he,  "I  don't  usually  do  such 
tilings,"  says  he,  "but  it  may  save  the  family 
trouble  in  this  case  if  I  register  the  death  my- 
self. I  sliall  pass  the  district  office  in  half  an 
hour's  time,  and  I  can  easily  look  in.  Mention, 
if  you  please,  that  I  will  do  so."  "Yes,  Sir," 
says  I,  "with  thanks,  I'm  sure,  for  your  kind- 
ness in  thinking  of  it."  "  You  don't  mind  stay- 
ing here  till  I  can  send  you  the  proper  person  ?" 
says  he.  "No,  Sir,"  says  I;  "I'll  stay  with 
the  poor  lady  till  then.  I  suppose  nothing 
more  could  be  done.  Sir,  than  was  done?"  says 
I.  "No,"  says  he,  "nothing;  she  must  have 
suffered  sadly  before  ever  I  saw  her:  the  case 
was  hojjclcss  wlien  I  was  called  in."  "Ah,  dear 
me  !  we  all  come  to  it,  sooner  or  later,  don't  we. 
Sir?"  says  I.  He  gave  no  answer  to  that;  he 
didn't  seem  to  care  about  talking.  He  said, 
"Good-day,"  and  went  out. 

I  stopped  by  the  bedside  from  that  time  till 
the  time  when  Mr.  Goodricke  sent  the  ])erson 
in,  aj  he  liad  pronuscd.      She   was  by    name 


Jane  Gould.  I  considered  her  to  be  a  respect- 
able-looking woman.  She  made  no  remark,  ex- 
ce])t  to  say  that  she  understood  what  was  want- 
ed of  her,  and  that  she  had  winded  a  man}'  of 
them  in  her  time. 

How  master  bore  the  news  when  he  first  heard 
it  is  more  than  I  can  tell,  not  having  been  pres- 
ent. When  I  did  see  him  he  looked  awfully 
overcome  by  it,  to  be  sure.  He  sat  quiet  in  a 
corner,  with  his  fat  hands  hanging  over  his  thick 
knees,  and  his  head  down,  and  his  eyes  looking 
at  nothing.  He  seemed  not  so  much  sorry  as 
scared  and  dazed  like  by  what  had  happened. 
My  mistress  managed  all  that  was  to  be  done 
about  the  funeral.  It  must  have  cost  a  sight 
of  money — the  coffin,  in  particular,  being  most 
beautiful.  The  dead  lady's  husband  was  away, 
as  we  heard,  in  foreign  ]iarts.  But  my  mis- 
tress (being  her  aunt)  settled  it  with  her  friends 
in  the  country  (Cumberland,  I  think)  that  she 
should  be  buried  there,  in  the  same  grave  along 
with  her  mother.  Every  thing  was  done  hand- 
somely in  respect  of  the  funeral,  I  say  again ; 
and  master  went  down  to  attend  the  burying  in 
the  country  himself.  He  looked  grand  in  his 
deep  mourning,  with  his  big,  solemn  face,  and 
his  slow  walk,  and  his  broad  hat-band — that  he 
did! 

In  conclusion  I  have  to  say,  in  answer  to 
Ci[uestions  jiut  to  me, 

1.  That  neither  I  nor  my  fellow-servant  ever 
saw  my  master  give  Lady  Glyde  any  medicine 
himself. 

2.  That  he  was  never,  to  my  knowledge  and 
belief,  left  alone  in  the  room  with  Lady  Glyde. 

3.  That  I  am  not  able  to  say  what  caused  the 
sudden  fright  which  my  mistress  informed  me 
had  seized  the  lady  on  her  first  coming  into  the 
house.  The  cause  was  never  explained  either 
to  me  or  to  my  fellow-servant. 

The  above  statement  has  been  read  over  in 
my  presence.  I  have  nothing  to  add  to  it  or  to 
take  away  from  it.  I  say,  on  my  oath  as  a 
Christian  woman.  This  is  the  truth. 

(Signed)      Hester  risiioKN,  Her+Mark. 


THE  NAERATIVE  OF  THE  DOCTOE. 

"To  the  Registrar  of  the  Sub-District  in 
which  the  under-mentioned  Death  took  place. 
I  hereby  certify  that  I  attended  Lady  Glyde, 
aged  Twenty-one  last  Birthday ;  that  I  last  saw 
]ier  on  the  isth  July,  1Si>0;  that  she  died  on  tlie 
same  day  at  No.  r>  Forest  liond,  St.  John's  Wood : 
and  that  the  cause  of  her  death  was 


CAtrsE  OP 
DEATH. 

DURATION   Olf 

DISEASE. 

Aneurism. 

Not  knoicn. 

(Signed)  Alfked  Goodeicke. 

Prof  I.  Title,  M.R.C.S.  Eng.  L.S.A. 
Address,  12  Croydon  Gardens,  St.  John's  Wood. 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  JANE  GOULD. 

I  WAS  the  person  sent  in  by  Jlr.  Goodricke  to 
do  what  was  right  and  needful  by  the  remains 
of  a  lady  who  bad  died  at  the  house  named  in 
the  certificate  which  precedes  this.     I  found  the 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


169 


body  in  charge  of  the  servant,  Hester  Pinhorn. 
I  remained  with  it,  and  prepared  it,  at  the 
pro])er  time,  for  tlie  grave.  It  was  laid  in  the 
coffin  in  my  presence,  and  I  afterward  saw  the 
cofiin  screwed  down  previous  to  its  removal. 
When  that  had  been  done,  and  not  before,  I 
received  what  was  due  to  me,  and  left  the  house. 
I  refer  persons  who  may  wish  to  investigate  my 
cliaracter  to  Mr.  Goodricke.  He  has  known  me 
for  more  tlian  six  years,  and  he  will  bear  wit- 
ness that  I  can  be  trusted  to  tell  the  truth. 

(Signed)  Jane  Gould. 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  THE  TOMBSTONE. 


SacrcU 

TO  THE   JIEMORY   OF 

LAUKA, 

LADY   GLYDE, 

■WIFE    OF    SIR    PERCIVAL,    GLYDE,    BART., 

OK  ELACKWATER  PAIUv,  HAMPSHIRE, 

AND 

daughter  of  the  late  philip  fairlie,  esq., 

of  lim.meridge  house,  ix  this  parish. 

bor:^,  march  27th,  1829. 

JMARRIED,   DECEMBER   2oD,   18-lD. 

PIED,  JULY  28th,  1850. 


THE  NAERATIVE  OF  WALTER  HART- 
EIGHT,  RESUMED, 

I. 

E^VELT  in  the  summer  of  1850,  I  and  my  sur- 
viving companions  left  the  wilds  and  forests  of 
Central  America  for  home.  Arrived  at  the 
coast,  we  took  ship  there  for  England.  The 
vessel  was  wrecked  in  the  Gulf  of  Mexico ;  I 
was  among  the  few  saved  from  the  sea.  It  was 
my  third  escape  from  jieril  of  death.  Death  by 
disease,  deatli  by  the  Indians,  death  by  drown- 
ing— all  three  had  approached  me ;  all  three 
had  passed  me  by. 

Tlie  survivors  of  the  wreck  were  rescued  by 
an  American  vessel  bound  for  Liverpool.  The 
ship  reached  her  port  on  the  thirteenth  day  of 
October,  1850.  We  landed  late  in  the  afternoon, 
and  I  arrived  in  London  the  same  night. 

These  pages  are  not  the  record  of  my  wander- 
ings and  my  dangers  away  from  home.  Tlie 
motives  which  led  me  from  my  country  and  my 
friends  to  a  new  world  of  adventure  and  peril 
are  known.  From  that  self-imposed  exile  I 
came  back — as  I  had  hoped,  prayed,  believed,  I 
should  come  back — a  changed  man.  In  the 
watei's  of  a  new  life  I  had  tempered  my  nature 
afresh.  In  the  stern  school  of  extremity  and 
danger  my  will  had  learned  to  be  strong,  my 
heart  to  be  resolute,  my  mind  to  rely  on  itself. 
I  had  gone  out  to  fly  from  my  own  future.  I 
came  back  to  face  it,  as  a  man  should.  j 

To  face  it  with  that  inevitable  sup]iression  of 
myself  which  I  knew  it  would  demand  from  me.  i 
I  had  parted  with  the  worst  bitterness  of  the 
past,  but  not  with  my  heart's  remembrance  of 
the  sorrow  and  the  tenderness  of  that  meraora- 
ble  time.  I  had  not  ceased  to  feel  the  one  ir- 
reparable disappointment  of  my  life — I  had  only 
learned  to  bear  it.  Laura  Fairlie  was  in  all  my 
thoughts  wlien  the  ship  bore  me  away  and  I 
looked  my  last  ac  England.     Laura  Fairlie  was 


in  all  my  thoughts  when  the  ship  brought  mc 
back  and  the  morning  light  showed  the  friend- 
ly shore  in  view. 

IMy  pen  traces  the  old  letters  as  my  heart  goes 
back  to  the  old  love.  I  write  of  her  as  Laura 
Fairlie  still.  It  is  hard  to  think  of  her,  it  is 
hard  to  speak  of  her  by  her  husband's  name. 

There  are  no  more  words  of  explanation  to 
add,  on  my  appearing  for  the  second  time  in 
these  pages.  Tlus  final  naiTative,  if  I  have  the 
strength  and  the  courage  to  write  it,  may  now 
go  on. 

My  first  anxieties  and  first  hopes,  when  the 
morning  came,  centred  in  my  mother  and  my 
sister.  I  felt  the  necessity  of  ])reparing  them 
for  the  joy  and  surprise  of  my  return,  after  an 
absence  during  which  it  had  been  impossible  for 
them  to  receive  any  tidings  of  me  for  months 
])ast.  Early  in  the  morning  I  sent  a  letter  to 
the  Hampstead  Cottage,  and  followed  it  myself 
in  an  hour's  time. 

When  the  first  meeting  was  over,  when  our 
quiet  and  composure  of  other  days  began  grad- 
ually to  return  to  us,  I  saw  something  in  my  mo- 
ther's face  which  told  me  that  a  secret  oppres- 
sion lay  heavy  on  lier  heart.  There  was  more 
than  love — there  was  sorrow  in  the  anxious 
eyes  that  looked  on  me  so  tenderly  ;  there  was 
pity  in  the  kind  hand  that  slowly  and  fondly 
strengthened  its  hold  on  mine.  We  had  no 
concealments  from  each  other.  She  knew  how 
the  hope  of  my  life  had  been  wrecked  —  she 
knew  why  I  had  left  her.  It  was  on  my  lijjs  to 
ask,  as  composedly  as  I  could,  if  any  letter  had 
come  for  me  from  Miss  Ilalcombe — if  there  was 
any  news  of  her  sister  that  I  might  hear.  But 
when  I  looked  in  my  mother's  face,  I  lost  cour- 
age to  put  the  question  even  in  that  guarded 
form.  I  could  only  say,  doubtfully  and  restrain- 
edly, 

"Yon  have  something  to  tell  me." 

My  sister,  v/ho  had  been  sitting  opposite  to 
us,  rose  suddenly,  witliout  a  word  of  explana- 
tion— rose,  and  left  the  room. 

My  mother  moved  closer  to -me  on  the  sofa, 
and  put  her  arms  round  my  neck.  Those  fond 
arms  trembled ;  the  tears  flowed  fast  over  the 
faithful,  loving  face. 

"Walter!"  she  whispered — "my  own  dar- 
ling !  my  heart  is  heavy  for  you.  Oh,  my  son ! 
my  son!  try  to  remember  that  I  am  still  left!" 

My  head  sank  on  her  bosom.  She  had  said 
all,  in  saying  those  words. 

II. 

It  was  the  morning  of  the  third  day  since  my 
return — the  morning  of  the  sixteenth  of  October. 

I  had  remained  with  them  at  the  Cottage;  I 
had  tried  hard  not  to  embitter  the  haj>piness  of 
my  return  to  them,  as  it  was  embittered  to  ;ne. 
I  had  done  all  man  could  to  rise  after  the  shock, 
and  accept  my  life  resignedly — to  let  my  great 
sorrow  come  in  tenderness  to  my  heart,  and  not 
in  despair.  It  was  useless  and  hopeless.  >'o 
tears  soothed  my  aching  eyes ;  no  relief  came 
to  me  from  my  sister's  sympathy  or  my  mo- 
ther's love. 

On  that  third  morning  I  opened  my  heart  to 
them.  At  last  the  words  passed  my  lips  which 
I  had  longed  to  sjieak  on  the  day  when  my  mo- 
ther told  me  of  her  death. 


170 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


/'■o  , 


"LAURA,   LADY   GLTDE,  WAS    STANDING   BY   THE   INSCRIPTION,  AND   WAS   LOOKING   AT   ME   OVER 

THE    GRAVE." 


"Let  me  po  ,iway  alone  for  a  little  while,"  I 
said.  "  I  shall  bear  it  better  when  I  have  looked 
once  more  at  the  ))lace  where  I  first  saw  her — 
when  I  have  knelt  and  ])rayed  by  the  grave 
where  they  have  laid  her  to  rest." 

I  departed  on  my  journey — my  journey  to  the 
grave  of  Laura  Fairlie. 

It  was  a  quiet  autumn  afternoon  wlien  I 
stopped  at  the  solitary  station,  and  set  fortli 
alone,  on  foot,  by  the  well-remembered  road. 
The  wanint;  sun  was  shinins;  faintly  throutrh 
thin  white  clouds ;  the  air  was  warm  and  still ; 
the  peacefulness  of  the  lonely  country  was  over- 
shadowed and  saddened  by  the  influence  of  the 
falling  year. 

I  reached  the  moor;  I  stood  again  on  the 
brow  of  the  hill;  I  looked  on,  along  the  ])ath — - 
and  there  were  the  familiar  garden  trees  in  the 
distance,  the  clear  sweeping  semicircle  of  the 
drive,  the  high  wliite  walls  of  Limmeridge House. 
The  chances  and  changes,  the  wanderings  and 
dangers  of  months  and  months  past,  all  shrank 
and  shriveled  to  nothing  in  my  mind.  It  was 
like  yesterday  since  my  feet  had  last  trodden 
the  fragrant  heathy  ground !  I  tliought  I  should 
sec  her  coming  to  meet  me,  with  lier  little  straw 
hat  shading  her  face,  her  sinijde  dress  liuttering 


in  the  air,  and  her  well-filled  sketch-hook  readv 
in  her  hand. 

0  Death,  thou  hast  thy  sting!  0  Grave,  thou 
hast  th)'  victory ! 

1  turned  aside ;  and  there  below  me,  in  the 
glen,  was  the  lonesome  gray  church  ;  the  porch 
Avhere  I  had  waited  for  the  coming  of  the  woman 
in  white ;  the  hills  encircling  the  quiet  burial- 
ground  ;  the  brook  bubbling  cold  over  its  stony 
bed.  There  was  the  marble  cross,  fair  and  white, 
at  the  head  of  the  tomb — the  tomb  that  now 
rose  over  mother  and  daughter  alike. 

I  approached  the  grave.  I  crossed  once  more 
the  low  stone  stile,  and  bared  my  head  as  I 
touched  the  sacred  ground.  Sacred  to  gentle- 
ness and  goodness ;  sacred  to  reverence  and 
grief. 

I  stopped  before  the  pedestal  from  which  the 
cross  rose.  On  one  side  of  it,  on  the  side  nearest 
to  me,  the  newly-cut  inscri])tion  met  my  eyes — 
the  hard,  clear,  cruel  lilack  letters  which  told 
the  story  of  her  life  ami  death.  I  tried  to  read 
them.  I  did  read  as  far  as  the  name.  "  Sacred 
to  the  IMemory  of  Laura — "  The  kind  blue 
eyes  dim  with  tears ;  the  fair  liead  droojiinp 
wearily;  the  innocent,  parting  words  which  im- 
jilored  me  to  leave  Iicr — oh.  for  a  happier  last 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


171 


memory  of  her  than  this ;  the  memory  I  took 
away  with  me,  the  memory  I  bring  back  with 
me  to  her  grave ! 

A  second  time  I  tried  to  read  the  inscription. 
I  saw,  at  the  end,  the  date  of  her  death ;  and, 
above  it — 

Above  it,  there  were  lines  on  the  marble,  there 
was  a  name  among  them  which  disturbed  my 
thoughts  of  her.  I  went  round  to  the  other  side 
of  the  grave,  where  there  was  nothing  to  read — 
nothing  of  earthly  vileness  to  force  its  way  be- 
tween her  spirit  and  mine. 

I  knelt  down  by  the  tomb.  I  laid  my  hands, 
I  laid  my  head,  on  the  broad  white  stone,  and 
closed  my  weary  eyes  on  the  earth  around,  on 
the  light  above.  I  let  her  come  back  to  me. 
Oh,  my  love  !  my  love !  my  heart  may  speak  to 
you  71010  !  It  is  yesterday  again  since  we  parted 
— ^yesterday,  since  your  dear  hand  lay  in  mine 
— ^yesterday,  since  my  eyes  looked  their  last  on 
'you.     My  love !  my  love ! 

Time  had  flowed  on,  and  Silence  had  fallen, 
like  thick  night,  over  its  course. 

The  first  sound  that  came,  after  the  heavenly 
peace,  rustled  fointly,  like  a  passing  breath  of 
air,  over  the  grass  of  the  burial-ground.  I  heard 
it  nearing  me  slowly,  until  it  came  changed  to 
my  ear — came  like  footsteps  moving  onward — 
then  stopped. 

I  looked  up. 

The  sunset  was  near  at  hand.  The  clouds 
had  parted  ;  the  slanting  light  fell  mellow  over 
the  hills.  The  last  of  the  day  was  cold  and 
clear  and  still  in  the  quiet  valley  of  the  dead. 

Beyond  me,  in  the  burial-ground,  standing  to- 
gether in  the  cold  clearness  of  the  lower  light,  I 
saw  two  women.  They  were  looking  toward  the 
tomb;  looking  toward  me. 

Two. 

They  came  a  little  on,  and  stopped  again. 
Their  vails  were  down,  and  hid  their  faces  from 
me.  When  they  stopped,  one  of  tliem  raised 
her  vail.  In  the  still  evening  light  I  saw  the 
face  of  Marian  Halcombe. 
,  Changed,  changed  as  if  years  had  passed  over 
it !     The  eyes  large  and  wild,  and  looking  at 


me  with  a  strange  terror  in  them.  The  face 
worn  and  wasted  piteously.  Pain  and  fear  and 
grief  written  on  her  as  with  a  brand. 

I  took  one  step  toward  her  from  the  grave. 
She  never  moved — she  never  spoke.  The  vailed 
woman  with  her  cried  out  faintly.  I  stopped. 
The  springs  of  my  life  fell  low,  and  the  shud- 
dering of  an  unutterable  dread  crept  over  me 
from  head  to  foot. 

The  woman  with  the  vailed  face  moved  away 
from  her  companion  and  came  toward  me  slow- 
ly. Left  by  herself,  standing  by  herself,  Marian 
Halcombe  spoke.  It  was  the  voice  that  I  re- 
membered —  the  voice  not  changed,  like  the 
frightened  eyes  and  the  wasted  face. 

"My  dream!  my  dream!"  I  heard  her  say 
these  words  softly,  in  the  awful  silence.  She 
sank  on  her  knees,  and  raised  her  clasped  hands 
to  the  heaven.  "Father!  strengthen  him.  Fa- 
ther!  help  him,  in  his  hour  of  need." 

The  woman  came  on — slowly  and  silently 
came  on.  I  looked  at  her — at  her,  and  at  none 
other,  from  that  moment. 

The  voice  that  was  praying  for  me  faltered 
and  sank  low — then  rose  on  a  sudden,  and  called 
aftrightedly,  called  despairingly  to  me  to  come 
away. 

But  the  vailed  woman  had  possession  of  me, 
body  and  soul.  She  stopped  on  one  side  of  the 
grave.  We  stood  face  to  face,  with  the  tomb- 
stone between  us.  She  was  close  to  the  inscrip- 
tion on  the  side  of  the  pedestal.  Her  gown 
touched  the  black  letters. 

The  voice  came  nearer,  and  rose  and  rose 
more  passionately  still.  "  Hide  your  face!  don't 
look  at  her!     Oh,  for  God's  sake,  spare  him — "' 

The  woman  lifted  her  vail. 

TO   TUE   MEMORY   OF 

LAURA, 

LADY   GLYDE 

Laura,  Lady  Glyde,  was  standing  by  the  in- 
scription, and  was  looking  at  me  over  the  grave. 


THE  END  OF  THE  FIRST  PAPwT. 


172 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


PART     II. 


HARTRIGHT'S  NARRATIVE. 
I. 

I  OPEN  a  new  page.  I  advance  my  narrative 
by  one  week. 

The  history  of  the  interval  which  I  thus  pass 
over  must  remain  unrecorded.  My  heart  turns 
fiiint,  my  mind  sinks  in  darkness  and  confusion 
when  I  think  of  it.  This  must  not  be,  if  I  who 
write  am  to  guide,  as  I  ouglit,  you  who  read. 
This  must  not  be,  if  the  clew  that  leads  through 
the  windings  of  the  Story  is  to  remain,  from  end 
to  end,  untangled  in  my  hands. 

A  life  suddenly  clianged — its  whole  purpose 
created  afresh  ;  its  hopes  and  fears,  its  struggles, 
its  interests,  and  its  sacrifices,  all  turned  at  once 
and  forever  into  a  new  direction — this  is  the 
prospect  whicli  now  opens  before  me,  like  the 
burst  of  view  from  a  mountain's  top.  I  left  my 
narrative  in  the  quiet  sliadow  of  Limmeridge 
cl)urch:  I  resume  it,  one  week  later,  in  the  stir 
and  turmoil  of  a  London  street. 


The  street  is  in  a  populous  and  a  poor  neigh- 
borhood. The  ground-floor  of  one  of  the  houses 
in  it  is  occupied  by  a  small  news-vender's  shop ; 
and  the  first  floor  and  the  second  are  let  as  fur- 
nished lodgings  of  the  humblest  kind. 

I  have  taken  those  two  floors  in  an  assumed 
name.  On  the  upper  floor  I  live,  with  a  room 
to  work  in,  a  room  to  sleep  in.  On  the  lower 
floor,  under  tlie  same  assumed  name,  two  women 
live,  who  are  described  as  my  sisters.  I  get  my 
bread  by  drawing  and  engraving  on  wood  for  the 
cheap  periodicals.  My  sisters  are  sujjposed  to 
help  me  by  taking  in  a  little  needle-work.  Our 
poor  place  of  abode,  our  humble  calling,  our  as- 
sumed relationship,  and  our  assumed  name,  are 
all  used  alike  as  a  means  of  biding  us  in  the 
house-forest  of  London.  We  are  numbered  no 
longer  with  the  people  whose  lives  are  open  and 
known.  I  am  an  obscure,  unnoticed  man,  with- 
out patron  or  friend  to  help  me.  Marian  Hal- 
combe  is  nothing  now  but  my  eldest  sister,  who 
])rovides  for  our  household  wants  by  the  toil  of 
her  own  hands.  We  two  are  at  once  the  dupes 
and  the  agents  of  a  daring  imposture.  We  are 
the  accomplices  of  mad  Anne  Catherick,  who 
claims  the  name,  the  place,  and  the  living  per- 
sonality of  dead  Lady  Glyde. 

That  is  our  situation.  That  is  the  changed 
as])ect  in  which  we  three  must  appear,  hence- 
forth, in  this  narrative,  for  many  and  many  a 
page  to  come. 

In  the  eye  of  reason  and  of  law,  in  the  esti- 
mation of  relatives  and  friends,  according  to 
every  received  formality  of  civilized  society, 
"Laura,  Lady  Glyde,"  lay  buried  with  her  mo- 
ther in  Limmeridge  church-yard.  Torn  in  her 
own  lifetime  from  the  list  of  the  living,  the 
daughter  of  Philip  Fairlie  and  the  wife  of  Per- 
cival  Glyde  might  still  exist  for  her  sister, 
might  still  exist  for  me,  but  to  all  the  world  be- 
sides she  was  dead.  Dead  to  her  uncle,  who 
had  renounced  her;  dead  to  the  servants  of  the 
house,  who  had  failed  to  recognize  her;  dead  to 
the  persons  in  authority,  who  had  transmitted 
her  fortune  to  her  husband  and  her  aunt;  dead 
tn  my  mother  and  my  sister,  who  believed  me  to 
be  the  dupe  of  an  adventuress  and  the  victim  of 
a  fraud ;  socially,  morally,  legally — dead. 

And  yet  alive!  Alive  in  poverty  and  in 
hiding.  Alive,  with  the  poor  drawing-master 
to  figiit  her  battle,  and  to  win  the  way  back  for 
her  to  her  place  in  the  world  of  living  beings. 

Did  no  suspicion,  excited  by  my  own  knowl- 
edge of  Anne  Cathcrick's  resemblance  to  her, 
cross  my  mind  wlien  her  face  was  first  revealed 
to  me  ?  Not  the  shadow  of  a  sus])icion,  from 
the  moment  when  she  lifted  her  vail  by  the  side 
of  the  inscription  which  recorded  her  death. 

Before  the  sun  of  that  day  had  set,  before 
the  last  glimpse  of  the  home  which  was  closed 
against  her  had  passed  from  our  view,  the  fiire- 
well  words  I  spoke  when  we  jiarted  at  Linmier- 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


173 


idge  House  had  been  recalled  by  both  of  us ; 
repeated  by  me,  recojjnizetl  by  her.  "  If  ever 
the  time  comes  when  the  devotion  of  my  whole 
heart  and  soul  and  strength  will  give  you  a  mo- 
ment's happiness,  or  spare  you  a  moment's  sor- 
row, will  you  try  to  remember  the  poor  draw- 
ing-master who  has  taught  you  ?"  She,  who 
now  remembered  so  little  of  the  trouble  and 
the  terror  of  a  later  time,  remembered  those 
words,  and  laid  her  poor  head  innocently  and 
trustingly  on  the  bosom  of  the  man  who  had 
spoken  them.  In  that  moment,  when  she  called 
me  by  my  name,  when  she  said,  "  They  have 
tried  to  make  me  forget  every  thing,  Walter ; 
but  I  remember  Marian,  and  I  remember  yoii'' — 
in  that  moment  I,  who  had  long  since  given  her 
my  love,  gave  her  my  life,  and  thanked  God  that 
it  was  mine  to  bestow  on  her.  Yes,  the  time 
had  come.  From  thousands  on  thousands  of 
miles  away;  through  forest  and  wilderness, where 
com])anions  stronger  than  I  had  fallen  by  my 
side ;  through  peril  of  death  thrice  renewed  and 
thrice  escaped,  the  Hand  that  leads  men  on  the 
dark  road  to  the  future  had  led  me  to  meet  that 
time.  Forlorn  and  disowned,  sorely  tried  and 
sadly  changed  ;  her  beauty  faded,  her  mind 
clouded ;  robbed  of  her  station  in  the  world,  of 
her  place  among  living  creatures,  the  devotion  I 
had  promised,  the  devotion  of  my  whole  heart 
and  soul  and  sti'ength  might  be  laid  blamelessly 
now  at  those  clear  feet.  In  the  right  of  her  ca- 
lamity, in  the  right  of  her  friendlessness,  she 
was  mine  at  last !  Mine  to  support,  to  protect, 
to  cherish,  to  restore.  Mine  to  love  and  honor 
as  father  and  brother  both.  Mine  to  vindicate 
through  all  risks  and  all  sacrifices — through  the 
hopeless  struggle  against  Rank  and  Tower  — 
through  the  long  fight  with  armed  Deceit  and 
fortified  Success — through  the  waste  of  my  rep- 
utation— through  the  loss  of  my  friends — through 
the  hazard  of  my  life. 

n. 

My  position  is  defined ;  my  motives  are  ac- 
knowledged. The  story  of  Marian  and  the  story 
of  Laura  must  come  next. 

I  shall  relate  both  narratives,  not  in  the  words 
(often  interru])ted,  often  inevitably  confused)  of 
the  speakers  themselves,  but  in  tlie  words  of  the 
brief,  plain,  studiously  simple  abstract  which  I 
committed  to  writing  for  my  own  guidance,  and 
for  the  guidance  of  my  legal  adviser.  So  the 
tangled  web  will  be  most  sjieedily  and  most  in- 
telligibly unrolled. 

The  story  of  ^Marian  begins  ^yhere  the  narra- 
tive of  the  housekeeper  at  Blackwater  Park  left 
oflF. 

On  Lady  Glyde's  departure  from  her  hus- 
band's house,  the  fact  of  that  dejiarture,  and 
the  necessary  statement  of  the  circumstances 
under  which  it  had  taken  place,  were  commu- 
nicated to  ]\Iiss  Halcombe  by  the  housekeep- 
er. It  was  not  till  some  days  afterward  (how 
many  days  exactly  ]\Irs.  Miclielson,  in  the  ab- 
sence of  any  written  memorandum  on  the  sub- 
ject, could  not  undertake  to  say)  that  a  letter 
arrived  from  Madame  Fosco  announcing  Lady 
Glyde's  sudden  death  in  Count  Fosco's  house. 
The  letter  avoided  mentioning  dates,  and  left  it 
to  Mrs.  Michelson's  discretion  to  break  the  news 
at  once  to  Miss  Halcombe,  or  to  defer  doing  so 


until  that  lady's  health  should  be  more  firmly 
established. 

Having  consulted  Jlr.  Dawson  (who  had  been 
himself  delayed,  by  ill  health,  in  resuming  his 
attendance  at  Blackwater  Park),  Mrs.  IMichel- 
son,  by  the  Doctor's  advice  and  in  the  Doctor's 
presence,  communicated  the  news,  either  on  the 
day  when  the  letter  was  received  or  on  the  day 
after.  It  is  not  necessary  to  dwell  here  upon 
the  effect  which  the  intelligence  of  Lady  Glyde's 
sudden  death  produced  on  her  sister.  It  is  only 
useful  to  the  present  purpose  to  say  that  she 
was  not  able  to  travel  for  more  than  three  weeks 
afterward.  At  the  end  of  that  time  she  pro- 
ceeded to  London,  accompanied  by  the  house- 
keeper. They  parted  there ;  j\Irs.  Michelson 
previously  informing  Miss  Halcombe  of  her  ad- 
dress, in  case  they  might  wish  to  communicate 
at  a  future  period. 

On  parting  with  the  housekeeper  Miss  Hal- 
combe went  at  once  to  the  otiHce  of  Messrs.  Gil- 
more  and  Kyrle  to  consult  with  the  latter  gen- 
tleman in  ]\Ir.  Gilmore's  absence.  She  men- 
tioned to  Mr.  Kyrle  what  she  had  thought  it 
desirable  to  conceal  from  every  one  else  (Mrs. 
Michelson  included) — her  suspicion  of  the  cir- 
cumstances under  which  Lady  Glyde  was  said 
to  have  met  her  death.  Mr.  Kyrle,  who  had 
previously  given  friendly  proof  of  his  anxiety 
to  serve  Miss  Halcombe,  at  once  undertook  to 
make  such  inquiries  as  the  delicate  and  danger- 
ous nature  of  the  investigation  proposed  to  him 
would  permit. 

To  exhaust  this  part  of  the  subject  before  go- 
ing farther,  it  may  be  here  mentioned  that  Count 
Fosco  offered  every  facility  to  Mr.  Kyrle  on 
that  gentleman's  stating  that  he  was  sent  by 
Miss  Halcombe  to  collect  such  particulars  as 
had  not  yet  reached  her  of  Lady  Glyde's  de- 
cease. Mr.  Kyrle  was  placed  in  communica- 
tion with  the  medical  man,  Mr.  Goodricke,  and 
with  the  two  servants.  In  the  absence  of  any 
means  of  ascertaining  the  exact  dale  of  Lady 
Glyde's  departure  fiom  Blackwater  Park,  tlie 
result  of  the  Doctor's  and  the  servants'  evidence, 
and  of  the  volunteered  statements  of  Count 
Fosco  and  his  wife,  was  conclusive  to  the  mind 
of  JMr.  Kyrle.  He  could  only  assume  that  the 
intensity  of  Sliss  Ilalconibe's  suffering  under  the 
loss  of  her  sister  had  misled  her  judgment  in  a 
most  deplorable  manner,  and  he  wrote  her  word 
that  the  shocking  suspicion  to  which  she  had 
alluded  in  his  presence,  was,  in  his  opinion, 
destitute  of  the  smallest  fragment  of  foundation 
in  truth.  Thus  the  investigation  by  Mr.  Gil- 
more's partner  began  and  ended. 

Meanwhile,  Miss  Halcombe  had  returned  to 
Limmeridge  House,  and  had  there  collected  all 
the  additional  infoi'mation  which  she  was  able 
to  obtain. 

Mr.  Fairlie  had  received  his  first  intimation 
of  his  niece's  death  from  his  sister,  Madame 
Fosco ;  this  letter  also  not  containing  any  exact 
reference  to  dates.  He  had  sanctioned  his  sis- 
ter's proposal  that  the  deceased  lady  should  be 
laid  in  her  mother's  grave  in  Limmeridge  church- 
)'ard.  Count  Fosco  had  accompanied  the  re- 
mains to  Cumberland,  and  had  attended  the 
funeral  at  Limmeridge,  which  took  place  on  the 
2d  of  August.  It  was  followed,  as  a  mark  of 
respect,  by  all  the  inhabitants  of  the  village  and 
the  neirrhborhood.     On  the  next  dav  the  in- 


174 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


scription  (originally  drawn  ont,  it  was  said,  by 
the  aunt  of  the  deceased  lady,  and  submitted 
for  ap]jroval  to  her  brother,  Mr.  Fairlie)  was  en- 
graved on  one  side  of  the  monument  over  the 
tomb. 

On  the  day  of  the  funeral,  and  for  one  day 
after  it,  Count  Fosco  had  been  received  as  a 
puest  at  Limmeridge  House ;  but  no  interview 
had  taken  place  between  Mr.  Fairlie  and  him- 
self by  tlie  former  gentleman's  desire.  They 
had  communicated  by  writing;  and  through 
this  medium  Count  Fosco  had  made  Mr.  Fairlie 
acquainted  with  the  details  of  his  niece's  last 
illness  and  death.  The  letter  presenting  this 
information  added  no  new  facts  to  the  facts 
already  known ;  but  one  veiy  remarkable  para- 
graph was  contained  in  the  postscript.  It  re- 
ferred to  tlie  woman  Anne  Catherick. 

The  substance  of  the  paragraph  in  question 
was  as  follows : 

It  first  informed  Mr.  Fairlie  that  Anne  Cath- 
erick (of  whom  he  might  hear  full  particulars 
from  Miss  Halcombe  when  she  readied  Lim- 
meridge) had  been  traced  and  recovered  in  the 
neighborhood  of  Blackwater  Park,  and  had 
been,  for  the  second  time,  placed  under  the 
charge  of  the  medical  man  from  whose  custody 
she  liad  once  escaped. 

Tiiis  was  the  first  ]5art  of  the  postscript.  The 
second  part  warned  Mr.  Fairlie  that  Anne  Cath- 
erick's  mental  malady  had  been  aggravated  by 
her  long  freedom  from  control,  and  tliat  the  in- 
sane hatred  and  distrust  of  Sir  Fercival  Clyde, 
whicli  had  been  one  of  her  most  marked  de- 
lusions in  former  times,  still  existed,  under  a 
newh'-acquired  form.  The  unfortunate  woman's 
last  idea  in  connection  with  Sir  Percival  was 
the  idea  of  annoying  and  distressing  him,  and 
of  elevating  herself,  as  she  supposed,  in  tlie  esti- 
mation of  the  patients  and  nurses,  In^  assuming 
the  cliaracter  of  his  deceased  wife ;  the  scheme 
of  this  personation  having  evidently  occurred  to 
her  after  a  stolen  interview  which  she  had  suc- 
ceeded in  obtaining  with  Lady  Glyde,  and  at 
which  she  had  observed  the  extraordinary  acci- 
dental likeness  between  tlie  deceased  lady  and 
herself.  It  was  to  the  last  degree  im])robable 
that  she  would  succeed  a  second  time  in  escap- 
ing from  the  Asylum ;  but  it  was  just  possible 
she  might  find  some  means  of  annoying  the  late 
Lady  Glyde's  relatives  with  letters  ;  and,  in  that 
case,  Mr.  Fairlie  was  warned  beforehand  how  to 
receive  them. 

The  postscript,  expressed  in  these  terms,  was 
shown  to  Miss  Halcombe  when  she  arrived  at 
Limmeridge.  There  were  also  ])laced  in  her 
possession  the  clothes  Lady  Glyde  had  worn, 
and  the  other  effects  she  had  brought  with  her 
to  her  aunt's  house.  They  had  been  carefully 
collected  and  sent  to  Cumberland  by  Madame 
Fosco. 

Such  was  the  posture  of  affairs  when  Miss 
Halcombe  reached  Limmeridge  in  the  early  part 
of  September.  Shortly  afterward  she  was  con- 
fined to  her  room  by  a  relapse,  her  weakened 
physical  energies  giving  wa)'  under  the  severe 
mental  alHiction  from  which  she  was  now  suf- 
fering. On  getting  stronger  again,  in  a  month's 
time,  her  suspicion  of  the  circumstances  de- 
scribed as  attending  her  sister's  death  still  re- 
mained unshaken.  She  had  heard  nothing  in 
the  interim  of  Sir  Fercival  Glyde;  but  letters 


had  reached  her  from  Madame  Fosco,  making 
the  most  affectionate  inquiries  on  the  part  of 
her  husband  and  herself.  Instead  of  answering 
these  letters,  Miss  Halcombe  caused  the  house 
in  St.  John's  Wood,  and  the  proceedings  of  its 
inmates,  to  be  privately  watched.  Nothing 
doubtful  was  discovered.  The  same  result  at- 
tended the  next  investigations,  which  were  se- 
cretly instituted  on  the  suliject  of  Mrs.  Kubelle. 
She  had  arrived  in  London,  about  six  nonths 
before,  with  her  husband.  They  had  come  from 
Lyons,  and  they  had  taken  a  house  in  the  neigh- 
borhood of  Leicester  Square,  to  be  fitted  up  as 
a  boarding-house  for  foreigners,  who  were  ex- 
pected to  visit  England  in  large  numbers  to  see 
the  Exhibition  of  1851.  Nothing  was  known 
against  husband  or  wife  in  the  neighborhood. 
They  were  quiet  people,  and  they  had  paid  their 
way  honestly  up  to  the  present  time.  The  final 
inquiries  related  to  Sir  Percival  Glyde.  He  was 
settled  in  Paris,  and  living  there  quietly  iu  a 
small  circle  of  English  and  French  friends. 

Foiled  at  all  points,  but  still  not  able  to  rest. 
Miss  Halcombe  next  determined  to  visit  the 
Asylum  in  which  Anne  Catherick  was  for  the 
second  time  confined.  She  had  felt  a  strong 
curiosity  about  the  woman  in  former  days,  and' 
she  was  now  doubly  interested — first,  in  ascer- 
taining whether  the  report  of  Anne  Catherick's 
attempted  jiersonation  of  Lady  Glyde  was  true  ; 
and,  secondly  (if  it  proved  to  be  true),  in  dis«^ 
covering  for  herself  what  the  poor  creature's 
real  motives  were  for  attempting  the  deceit. 

Although  Count  Fosco's  letter  to  Mr.  Fairlie 
did  not  mention  the  address  of  the  Asylum,  that 
important  omission  cast  no  difficulties  in  Miss 
Ilalcombe's  way.  When  Mr.  Hartright  had 
met  Anne  Catherick  at  Limmeridge,  she  had 
informed  him  of  the  locality  in  which  the  house 
was  situated,  and  Miss  Halcombe  had  noted 
down  the  direction  in  her  diaiy,  with  all  the 
other  ])articulars  of  the  interview,  exactly  as  she 
heard  them  from  Mr.  Hartright's  own  lips.  Ac- 
cordingly she  looked  back  at  the  entry,  and  ex- 
tracted the  address;  furnished  herself  with  the 
Count's  letter  to  I\Ir.  Fairlie,  as  a  si)ecies  of 
credential  which  might  be  useful  to  her;  and 
started  by  herself  for  the  Asylum  on  the  elev- 
enth of  October. 

She  passed  the  night  of  the  eleventh  in  Lon- 
don. It  had  been  her  intention  to  sleep  at  the 
house  inhabited  by  Lady  Glyde's  old  governess ; 
but  Mrs.  Vesey's  agitation  at  the  sight  of  her 
lost  pupil's  nearest  and  dearest  friend  was  so 
distressing  that  Miss  Halcombe  considerately 
refrained  from  remaining  in  her  presence,  and 
removed  to  a  respectable  boarding-house  in  the 
neighborhood,  recommended  by  Mrs.  Vesey's 
married  sister.  The  next  day  she  proceeded  to 
the  Asylum,  which  was  situated  not  far  from 
London,  on  the  northern  side  of  the  metropolis. 

She  was  immediately  admitted  to  see  the  pro- 
prietor. At  first  he  appeared  to  be  decidedly  un- 
willing to  let  her  communicate  with  his  patient. 
But  on  her  showing  him  the  postscript  to  Count 
Fosco's  letter — on  her  reminding  him  that  she 
was  the  "Miss  Halcombe"  there  referred  to; 
that  she  was  a  near  relative  of  the  deceased  Lady 
Glyde;  and  that  she  was  therefore  naturally  in- 
terested, for  family  reasons,  in  observing  for  her- 
self the  extent  of  Anne  Catherick's  delusion  in 
relation  to  her  late  sister — the  tone  and  m.anner 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


175 


of  the  owner  of  the  Asylum  altered,  and  he 
withdrew  his  ohjections.  He  probably  felt  that 
a  continued  refusal,  under  these  circumstances, 
would  not  only  be  an  act  of  discourtesy  in  itself, 
but  would  also  imj^ly  that  the  proceedings  in  his 
establishment  were  not  of  a  nature  to  bear  in- 
vestigation by  respectable  strangers. 

Miss  Halcombe's  own  impression  was  that 
the  owner  of  the  Asylum  had  not  been  i-eceived 
into  the  confidence  of  Sir  Percival  and  the 
Count.  His  consenting  at  all  to  let  her  visit  his 
patient  seemed  to  afford  one  proof  of  this,  and 
his  readiness  in  making  admissions  which  could 
scarcely  have  escaped  the  lips  of  an  accomplice, 
certainly  appeared  to  furnish  another. 

For  example,  in  the  course  of  the  introductory 
conversation  which  took  place,  he  informed  ]\Iiss 
Halcombe  that  AnneCatherick  had  been  brought 
Imck  to  him  by  Count  Fosco  on  the  thirtieth  of 
July;  the  Count  producing  a  letter  of  explana- 
tions and  instructions,  signed  by  Sir  Percival 
Glyde.  On  receiving  his  inmate  again,  he  (the 
proprietor  of  the  Asylum)  acknowledged  that  he 
had  observed  some  curious  personal  changes  in 
her.  Such  changes,  no  doubt,  were  not  without 
precedent  in  his  experience  of  persons  mentally 
afflicted.  Insane  people  were  often  at  one  time, 
outwai'dly  as  well  as  inwardly,  unlike  what  they 
were  at  another;  the  change  from  better  to 
worse,  or  from  worse  to  better,  in  the  madness, 
having  a  necessary  tendency  to  produce  altera- 
tions of  appearance  externally.  "He  allowed  for 
these;  and  he  allowed  also  for  the  modification 
in  the  form  of  AnneCatherick's  delusion,  which 
was  reflected,  no  doubt,  in  her  manner  and  ex- 
pression. But  he  was  still  perplexed,  at  times, 
by  certain  differences  between  his  patient  before 
she  had  escaped  and  his  patient  since  she  had 
been  brought  back.  Those  differences  were  too 
minute  to  be  described.  He  could  not  say,  of 
course,  that  she  was  absolutely  altered  in  height 
or  shape  or  complexion,  or  in  the  color  of  her 
hair  and  eyes,  or  in  the  general  form  of  her 
face:  the  change  was  something  that  he  felt 
more  than  something  that  he  saw.  In  short, 
the  case  had  been  a  puzzle  from  the  first,  and 
one  more  perplexity  was  added  to  it  now. 

It  can  not  be  said  that  this  conversation  led 
to  the  result  of  even  partially  preparing  Miss 
Halcombe's  mind  for  what  was  to  come.  But 
it  produced,  nevertheless,  a  very  serious  effect 
upon  her.  She  was  so  completely^  unnerved  by 
it,  that  some  little  time  elapsed  before  she  could 
summon  composure  enough  to  follow  the  pro- 
prietor of  the  Asylum  to  that  part  of  the  house 
in  which  the  inmates  were  confined. 

On  inquiry,  it  turned  out  that  Anne  Cather- 
ick  was  then  taking  exercise  in  the  grounds  at- 
tached to  the  establishment.  One  of  the  nurses 
volunteered  to  conduct  Miss  Halcombe  to  the 
place  ;  the  proprietor  of  the  Asylum  remaining 
in  the  house  for  a  few  minutes  to  attend  to  a 
case  which  required  his  services,  and  then  en- 
gaging to  join  his  visitor  in  the  grounds. 

The  nurse  led  Miss  Halcombe  to  a  distant 
part  of  the  property^  which  was  prettily  laid  out, 
and  after  looking  about  her  a  little  turned  into 
a  turf  walk  shaded  by  a  shrubbery  on  either 
side.  About  half-way  down  this  walk  two 
women  were  slowly  approaching.  The  nurse 
pointed  to  them,  and  said,  "There  is  Anne 
Catheri^ck,  ma'am,  with  the  attendant  who  waits 


on  her.  The  attendant  will  answer  any  ques- 
tions you  wish  to  put."  With  those  words  th<' 
nurse  left  her  to  return  to  the  duties  of  the 
house. 

Miss  Halcombe  advanced  on  her  side,  and  the 
women  advanced  on  theirs.  When  they  were 
within  a  dozen  paces  of  each  other,  one  of  the 
women  stopjted  for  an  instant,  looked  eagerly  at 
the  strange  lady,  shook  oft' the  nurse's  grasp  on 
her,  and  the  next  moment  rushed  into  Miss  Hal- 
combe's arms.  In  that  moment  Miss  Halcombe 
recognized  her  sister — recognized  the  dead-alive. 

Fortunately  for  the  success  of  the  measures 
taken  subsequently,  no  one  witnessed  this  recog- 
nition but  the  nurse.  She  was  a  young  woman, 
and  she  was  so  startled  by  it  that  she  was  at  first 
quite  incapable  of  interfering.  When  she  was 
able  to  do  so,  her  whole  services  were  required 
by  Miss  Halcombe,  who  had  for  the  moment 
sunk  altogether  in  the  effort  to  keep  her  own 
senses  under  the  shock  of  the  discovery.  After 
waiting  a  few  minutes  in  the  fresh  air  and  the 
cool  shade,  her  natural  energy  and  courage 
helped  her  a  little,  and  she  became  sufficiently 
mistress  of  herself  to  feel  the  necessity  of  recall- 
ing her  presence  of  mind  for  her  unfortunate 
sister's  sake. 

She  obtained  permission  to  speak  alone  with 
the  patient  on  condition  that  they  both  remained 
well  within  the  nurse's  view.  There  was  no  time 
for  questions — there  was  only  time  for  Miss  Hal- 
combe to  impress  on  the  unhappy  lady  the  neces- 
sity of  controlling  herself,  and  to  assure  her  of 
immediate  help  and  rescue  if  she  did  so.  The 
prospect  of  escaping  from  the  Asylum  by  obe- 
dience to  her  sister's  directions  was  sufficient 
to  cpuet  Lady  Glyde,  and  to  make  her  under- 
stand what  was  required  of  her.  Miss  Hal- 
combe next  returned  to  the  nurse,  placed  all  the 
gold  she  then  had  in  her  pocket  (three  sover- 
eigns) in  the  nurse's  hands,  and  a.^ked  when  and 
where  she  could  sjieak  to  her  alone. 

The  woman  was  at  first  surprised  and  distrust- 
ful. But  on  Miss  Halcombe's  declaring  that  she 
only  wanted  to  put  some  questions  which  she 
was  too  much  agitated  to  ask  at  that  moment, 
and  that  she  had  no  intention  of  misleading  the 
nurse  into  any  dereliction  of  duty,  the  womaTi 
took  the  money,  and  proposed  three  o'clock  on 
the  next  day  as  the  time  for  the  interview.  She 
might  then  slip  out  for  half  an  hour  after  the 
patients  had  dined;  and  she  would  meet  the 
lady  in  a  retired  place,  outside  the  high  north 
wall  which  screened  the  grounds  of  the  house. 
Miss  Halcombe  had  only  time  to  assent,  and  to 
whisper  to  her  sister  that  she  should  hear  frcmi 
her  on  the  next  day,  when  the  proprietor  of  the 
Asylum  joined  them.  He  noticed  his  visitor's 
agitation,  which  Miss  Halcombe  accounted  for 
by  saying  that  her  interview  with  Anne  Cather- 
ick  had  a  little  startled  her  at  first.  She  took 
her  leave  as  soon  after  as  possible — that  is  to 
say,  as  soon  as  she  could  summon  courage  to 
force  herself  fi-om  the  presence  of  her  unfortu- 
nate sister. 

A  very  little  reflection,  when  the  capacity  to 
reflect  returned,  convinced  her  that  any  attempt  ^ 
to  identify  Lady  Glyde  and  to  rescue  her  byy 
legal  means,  would,  even  if  successful,  involve 
a  delay  that  might  be  fatal  to  her  sister's  intel 
lects,  which  were  shaken  already  by  the  horr/ 
of  the  situation  to  which  she  had  been  consigr 


176 


THE  WOJIAN  IN  WHITE. 


By  the  time  Sliss  Hakombe  had  got  back  to  Lon- 
don she  had  determined  to  etfect  Lady  Glyde's 
escape  privately  by  means  of  the  nurse. 

Slie  went  at  once  to  her  stock-broker,  and  sold 
out  of  the  funds  all  the  little  property  she  pos- 
sessed, amounting  to  rather  less  than  seven  hun- 
dred pounds.  Determined,  if  necessar}',  to  pay 
the  price  of  her  sister's  liberty  with  every  far- 
thing slie  had  in  the  world,  she  repaired  the 
next  day,  having  the  whole  sum  about  her  in 
bank-notes,  to  her  appointment  outside  the  Asy- 
lum wall. 

The  nurse  was  there.  Miss  Halcombe  ap- 
proached the  subject  cautiously  by  many  pre- 
liminary questions.  She  discovered,  among  oth- 
er particulars,  that  the  nurse  who  had  in  former 
times  attended  on  the  true  Anne  Catherick  had 
been  held  responsible  (although  she  was  not  to 
blame  for  it)  for  the  patient's  escape,  and  had 
lost  her  place  in  consequence.  The  same  pen- 
alty, it  was  added,  would  attach  to  the  person 
then  speaking  to  her,  if  the  supposed  Anne  Cath- 
erick was  missing  a  second  time  ;  and,  more- 
over, tlie  nurse,  in  this  case,  had  an  especial  in- 
terest in  keeping  her  place.  She  was  engaged 
to  be  married,  and  she  and  her  future  husband 
were  waiting  till  they  could  save  together  be- 
tween two  and  three  hundred  pounds  to  start  in 
business.  The  nurse's  wages  were  good ;  and 
she  might  succeed,  by  strict  economy,  in  con- 
tributing her  small  share  toward  the  sum  re- 
quired in  two  yeai's'  time. 

On  this  hint  Miss  Halcombe  spoke.  She  de- 
clared that  the  supposed  Anne  Catherick  was 
nearly  related  to  her  ;  that  she  had  been  placed 
in  the  Asylum  under  a  fatal  mistake  ;  and  that 
the  nurse  would  be  doing  a  good  and  a  Christian 
action  in  being  the  means  of  restoring  them  to 
one  another.  Before  there  was  time  to  start  a 
single  objection  Miss  Halcombe  took  four  bank- 
notes, of  a  hundred  pounds  each,  from  her  pocket- 
book,  and  offered  them  to  the  woman,  as  a  com- 
pensation for  the  risk  she  was  to  run,  and  for 
the  loss  of  her  place. 

The  nurse  hesitated,  through  sheer  incredulity 
and  surprise.  Miss  Halcombe  pressed  the  point 
on  her  firmly. 

"You  will  be  doing  a  good  action,"  she  re- 
peated ;  "you  will  be  helping  the  most  injured 
and  unhappy  woman  alive.  There  is  your  mai-- 
riage-portion  for  a  reward.  Bring  her  safely  to 
me  here,  and  I  will  put  these  four  bank-notes 
into  your  hand  before  I  claim  her." 

"Will  you  give  me  a  letter  saying  those 
words,  which  I  can  show  to  my  sweet-heart,  when 
he  asks  how  I  got  the  money  ?"  inquired  the 
woman. 

"  I  will  bring  the  letter  with  me,  ready  writ- 
ten and  signed,"  answered  Miss  Halcombe. 

"Then  I'll  risk  it,"  said  the  nurse. 

"When?" 

"  To-moiTow." 

It  was  hastily  agreed  between  them  that  Miss 
Halcombe  should  return  early  the  next  morning, 
and  wait  out  of  sight,  among  the  trees — always, 
however,  keeping  near  the  (piiet  spot  of  ground 
under  the  north  wall.  The  nurse  could  fix  no 
time  for  her  a))pearance,  caution  requiring  that 
she  should  wait  and  be  guided  by  circumstances. 
On  that  understanding  they  scjjarated. 

Miss  Halcombe  was  at  her  jilace  with  the 
womised  letter   and  the  promised  bank-notes 


before  ten  the  next  morning.  She  waited  more 
than  an  hour  and  a  half.  At  the  end  of  that 
time  the  nurse  came  quickly  around  the  corner 
of  the  wall,  holding  Lady  Clyde  by  the  arm. 
The  moment  they  met  Miss  Halcombe  put  the 
bank-notes  and  the  letter  into  her  hand,  and 
the  sisters  were  united  again. 

The  nurse  had  dressed  Lady  Clyde,  with  ex- 
cellent forethought,  in  a  bonnet,  vail,  and  shawl 
of  her  own.  Miss  Halcombe  only  detained  her 
to  suggest  a  means  of  turning  the  pursuit  in  a 
false  direction,  when  the  escape  was  discovered 
at  the  Asylum.  She  was  to  go  back  to  the 
house ;  to  mention  in  the  hearing  of  the  other 
nurses  that  Anne  Catherick  had  been  inquir- 
ing, latterly,  about  the  distance  from  London  to 
Hampshire  ;  to  wait  till  the  last  moment  before 
discovery  was  inevitable,  and  then  to  give  the 
alarm  that  Anne  was  missing.  The  supposed 
inquiries  about  Hampshire,  when  communicated 
to  the  owner  of  the  Asylum,  would  lead  him  to 
imagine  that  his  patient  had  returned  to  Black- 
water  Park,  under  the  influence  of  the  delusion 
which  made  her  persist  in  asserting  herself  to 
be  Lady  Clyde  ;  and  the  first  pursuit  would,  in 
all  probability,  be  turned  in  that  direction. 

The  nurse  consented  to  follow  these  sugges- 
tions— the  more  readily,  as  they  offered  her  the 
means  of  securing  iierself  against  au}-  worse  con- 
sequences than  the  loss  of  her  j)lace,  by  remain- 
ing in  the  Asylum,  and  so  maintaining  the  a|>- 
])earance  of  innocence,  at  least.  She  at  once 
returned  to  the'  house,  and  Miss  Halcombe  lost 
no  time  in  taking  her  sister  back  with  her  to 
London.  They  caught  the  afternoon  train  to 
Carlisle  the  same  afternoon,  and  arrived  atLim- 
meridge,  without  accident  or  difficulty  of  any 
kind,  that  night. 

During  the  latter  part  of  their  journey  they 
were  alone  in  the  carriage,  and  Miss  Halcombe 
was  able  to  collect  such  remembrances  of  the 
l)ast  as  her  sister's  confused  and  weakened  mem- 
ory was  able  to  recall.  The  terrible  story  of  the 
conspiracy  so  obtained  was  presented  in  frag- 
ments, sadly  incoherent  in  themselves,  and  wide- 
ly detached  from  each  other.  Imjjerfect  as  the 
revelation  was,  it  must  nevertheless  be  recorded 
here  before  this  explanatory  narrative  closes 
with  the  events  of  the  next  day  at  Limmeridgc 
House. 

The  following  particulars  comprise  all  that 
Miss  Halcombe  was  able  to  discover : 

Lady  Clyde's  recollection  of  the  events  which 
followed  her  departure  from  Blackwater  Park 
began  with  her  arrival  at  the  London  terminus 
of  the  Southwestern  railway.  She  had  omitte<l 
to  make  a  memorandum  beforehand  of  the  day 
on  which  she  took  the  journey.  All  hope  of  fix- 
ing that  important  date  by  any  evidence  of  hers 
or  of  Mrs.  IMichelson's  must  be  given  up  for  lost. 

On  the  arrival  of  the  train  at  the  platform 
Lady  Clyde  found  Count  Fosco  waiting  for  her. 
He  was  at  the  carriage  door  as  soon  as  the  ]ior- 
ter  could  o])en  it.  The  train  was  unusually 
crowded,  and  there  was  great  confusion  in  get- 
ting the  luggage.  Some  person  whom  Count 
Fosco  brought  with  him  procured  the  luggage 
which  belonged  to  Lady  Clyde.  It  was  marked 
with  her  name.  She  drove  away  alone  with 
the  Count,  in  a  vehicle  which  she  did  not  par- 
tioularlv  notice  at  the  time. 


\ 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


177 


^x  !h!,^ 


"the  nurse  came  quickly  around  the  corner  of  the  wall,  holding  lady  CLYDE  BY 

THE  ARM." 


Her  first  question  on  leavinji  the  terminus 
referred  to  Miss  Halcombe.  The  Count  in- 
formed her  that  Miss  Halcombe  had  not  yet 
<:;one  to  Cumberland,  after-consideration  hav- 
ing caused  him  -to  doubt  the  prudence  of  her 
taking  so  long  a  journey  without  some  days' 
previous  rest. 

Lady  Clyde  next  inquired  whether  her  sister 
was  then  staying  in  the  Count's  house.  Her 
recollection  of  the  answer  was  confused,  her 
only  distinct  impression  in  relation  to  it  being 
that  the  Count  declared  he  was  then  taking  her 
to  see  Miss  Halcombe.  Lady  Clyde's  experi- 
ence of  London  was  so  limited  that  she  could 
not  tell  at  the  time  through  what  streets  they 
were  driving.  But  they  never  left  the  streets, 
and  they  never  passed  any  gardens  or  trees. 
When  the  carriage  stopped  it  stopped  in  a  small 
street  behind  a  square — a  square  in  which  there 
were  sho]is  and  public  buildings  and  many  peo- 
ple. From  these  recollections  (of  which  Lady 
Clyde  was  certain)  it  seems  quite  clear  that 
Count  Fosco  did  not  take  her  to  his  own  resi- 
dence in  the  suburb  of  St.  John's  Wood. 

They  entered  the  house  and  went  up  stairs  to 
;i  back  room,  either  on  the  first  or  second  floor. 

brought  in.  A  fe- 
M  " 


The  luggage  was  carefullv 


male  seiwant  opened  the  door,  and  a  man  with 
a  beard,  apparently  a  foreigner,  met  them  in  the 
hall,  and  with  great  politeness  showed  them  the 
way  up  stairs.  In  answer  to  Lady  Clyde's  in- 
quiries the  Count  assured  her  that  Miss  Hal- 
combe was  in  the  house,  and  that  she  should 
be  immediately  informed  of  her  sister's  arrival. 
He  and  the  foreigner  then  went  away  and  left 
her  by  herself  in  the  room.  It  was  poorly  fur- 
nished as  a  sitting-room,  and  it  looked  out  on 
the  backs  of  houses. 

She  was  left  here  alone  for  a  considerable 
time — for  so  long  that  she  began  to  feel  very 
uneasv.  The  house  was  remarkably  quiet;  no 
footsteps  went  u]i  or  down  the  stairs — she  only 
heard  in  the  room  beneath  her  a  dull,  rumbling 
sound  of  men's  voices  talking.  One  of  the 
voices  might  have  been  Count  Fosco's.  It  was 
at  least  certain  that  the  talking  left  oft"  suddenly, 
and  that  the  Count  entered  the  room  again  by 
himself  immediately  afterward. 

The  moment  he  a])peared  she  asked  anxious- 
ly wh}'  the  meeting  between  her  sister  and  her- 
self was  so  long  delayed.  At  first  he  returned 
an  evasive  answer;  but  on  being  jiressed  he 
acknowledged,  with  great  apparent  reluctance, 
that  jNIiss  Halcombe  Mas  bv  no  means  so  well  as 


178 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


■■fM 


""  Ni-         'N 


^' 


.-^    k 


^-?iJl 


he  had  hitherto  represented  her  to  be.  His  tone 
and  manner  in  making  this  reply  so  alarmed 
Lady  Glyde,  or  rather  so  painfully  increased 
the  uneasiness  which  she  had  felt  ever  since  en- 
tering the  house,  that  a  sudden  sensation  of 
faintness  overcame  her,  and  she  was  obliged  to 
ask  for  a  glass  of  water.  The  Connt  called  from 
the  door  for  water  and  for  a  bottle  of  smelling- 
salts.  Both  were  brought  in  by  the  man  with 
the  beard.  The  water,  when  Lady  Glyde  at- 
tempted to  drink  it,  had  so  strange  a  taste  that 
it  increased  her  faintness,  and  she  hastily  took 
the  bottle  of  salts  from  Count  Fosco  and  smelled 
at  it.  Her  head  became  giddy  on  the  instant. 
The  Count  caught  the  bottle  as  it  dropped  out 
of  her  hand,  and  the  last  impression  of  which 
>ihe  was  conscious  was  that  he  held  it  to  her 
nostrils  again. 

From  this  point  her  recollections  were  found 
to  be  confused,  fragmentary,  and  diiticult  to 
reconcile  with  any  reasonable  probability. 

Her  own  impression  was  that  she  recovered 
her  senses  later  in  the  evening;  that  she  then 
left  the  house ;  that  she  went  (as  she  had  pre- 
viously arranged  to  go  at  Blackwater  Park)  to 
Mrs.  Vcscy's;  that  she  drnnk  tea  there;  and 
that  she  passed  the  night  under  Mrs.  Vescy's 
roof.  She  was  totally  unable  to  say  how,  or 
when,  or  in  what  company  she  left  the  house  to 
which  Count  Fosco  had  brought  her.  But  she 
persisted  in  assorting  that  she  had  ])cen  to  Mrs. 
Vesey's;  and,  still  more  extraordinary,  that  she 
had  been  helped  to  undress  and  get  to  bed  by 


Mrs.  Rubelle !  She  could  not  remember  what 
the  conversation  was  at  Mrs.  Vesey's,  or  whom 
she  saw  there  besides  that  lady,  or  why  Mrs. 
Rubelle  should  have  been  present  in  the  house 
to  help  her. 

Her  recollection  of  what  happened  the  next 
morning  was  still  more  vague  and  unreliable. 
She  had  some  dim  idea  of  driving  out  (at  what 
hour  she  could  not  say)  with  Count  Fosco,  and 
with  Mrs.  Kubelle  again  for  a  female  attendant. 
But  when  and  why  she  left  Mrs.  Vesey  she  could 
not  tell ;  neither  did  she  know  what  direction 
the  carriage  drove  in,  or  where  it  set  her  down, 
or  whether  the  Count  and  Mrs.  Rubelle  did  or 
did  not  remain  with  her  all  the  time  she  was 
out.  At  this  point  in  her  sad  story  there  was  a 
total  blank.  She  had  no  impressions  of  the 
faintest  kind  to  commixnicate — no  idea  whether 
one  day  or  more  than  one  day  had  passed — un- 
til she  came  to  herself  suddenly  in  a  strange 
place,  surrounded  by  women  who  were  all  un- 
known to  her. 

This  was  the  Asylum.  Here  she  first  heard 
herself  called  by  Anne  Catherick's  name  ;  and 
here,  as  a  last  remarkable  circumstance  in  the 
story  of  the  conspiracy,  her  own  eyes  informed 
her  that  she  had  Anne  Catherick's  clothes  on. 
The  nurse,  on  the  first  night  in  the  Asylum,  had 
shown  her  the  marks  on  each  article  of  her  un- 
derclothing as  it  was  taken  off,  and  had  said, 
not  at  all  irritably  or  unkindly,  "Look  at  your 
own  name  on  your  own  clothes,  and  don't  worry 
us  all  any  more  about  being  Lady  Glyde.  She's 
dead  and  buried,  and  you're  alive  and  hearty. 
Do  look  at  your  clothes  now!  There  it  is,  in 
good  marking-ink ;  and  there  you  will  find  it 
on  all  your  old  things  which  we  have  kept  iu 
the  house — Anne  Catherick,  as  plain  as  print!" 
And  there  it  was  when  Miss  Halcombe  exam- 
ined the  linen  her  sister  wore,  on  the  night  of 
their  arrival  at  Limmeridge  House.  . 

Such,  reduced  to  plain  terms,  was  the  narra- 
tive obtained  from  Lady  Glyde,  by  careful  ques- 
tioning, on  the  journey  to  Cumberland.  Miss 
Halcombe  abstained  from  pressing  her  with  any 
inquiries  relating  to  events  in  the  Asylum,  her 
mind  being  but  too  evidently  unfit  to  bear  the 
trial  of  reverting  to  them.  It  was  known,  by 
the  voluntary  admission  of  the  owner  of  the 
mad-house,  that  she  was  received  there  on  the 
thirtieth  of  July.  From  that  date  until  the  fif- 
teenth of  October  (the  day  of  her  rescue)  she 
had  been  under  restraint,  her  identity  with  Anne 
Catherick  systematically  asserted,  and  her  san- 
ity, from  first  to  last,  practically  denied.  Fac- 
ulties less  delicately  balanced,  constitutions  less 
tenderly  organized,  must  have  sufi'ered  under 
such  an  ordeal  as  this.  No  man  c<mld  have 
gone  through  it  and  come  out  of  it  unchanged. 

Arriving  at  Limmeridge  late  on  the  evening 
of  the  fifteenth.  Miss  Halcombe  wisely  resolved 
not  to  attempt  the  assertion  of  Lady  Glyde's 
identity  until  the  next  day. 

The  first  thing  in  the  morning  she  went  to 
Mr.  Fairlie's  room,  and,  using  all  possible  cau- 
tions and  ])reparations  hcfi)reliand,  at  last  told 
him  in  so  many  words  what  had  happened.  As 
soon  as  his  first  astonishment  and  alarm  had 
subsided,  he  a,ngrily  declared  that  Miss  Hal- 
combe had  allowed  herself  to  be  duped  by  Anne 
Catherick.     He  referred  her  to  Count  Fosco's 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


179 


"  MR.  FAIRLIE    DECLARED    IN    THE   MOST    POSITIVE    TERMS   THAT    HE    DID    NOT   RECOGNIZE    THE 

AVOMAN,"  ETC, 


letter,  and  to  what  she  had  herself  told  him  of 
the  personal  resemblance  between  Anne  and  his 
deceased  niece ;  and  he  positively  declined  to 
admit  to  his  presence,  even  for  one  minute  only, 
.1  madwoman,  whom  it  was  an  insult  and  an  out- 
rap;e  to  have  brought  into  his  house  at  all.  Miss 
Halcombe  left  the  room  ;  waited  till  the  first 
heat  of  her  indignation  had  passed  away ;  de- 
cided, on  reflection,  that  Mr.  Fairlic  should  see 
his  niece,  in  the  interests  of  common  humani- 
ty, before  he  closed  his  doors  on  her  as  a  stran- 
ger; and  thereupon,  without  a  word  of  previous 
warnintj,  took  Lady  Glyde  with  her  to  his  room. 
The  servant  was  posted  at  the  door  to  prevent 
their  entrance;  but  Miss  Halcombe  insisted  on 
passing  him,  and  made  her  way  into  Mr.  Fair- 
lie's  presence,  leading  her  sister  by  the  hand. 

The  scene  that  followed,  though  it  only  last- 
ed for  a  few  minutes,  was  too  painful  to  be  de- 
scribed— Miss  Halcombe  herself  shrank  from  re- 
ferring to  it.  Let  it  be  enough  to  say  that  Mr. 
Eairlie  declared  in  the  most  positive  terms  that 
he  did  not  recognize  the  woman  who  had  been 
brought  into  his  room;  that  he  saw  nothing  in 
her  face  and  manner  to  make  him  doubt  for  a 
moment  that  his  niece  lay  buried  in  Limmer- 
idge  church-yard ;  and  that  he  would  call  on 


the  law  to  protect  him  if  before  the  day  was 
over  she  was  not  removed  from  the  house. 

Taking  the  very  -worst  view  of  Mr.  Fairlie's 
selfishness,  indolence,  and  habitualwant  of  feel- 
ing, it  was  manifestly  impossible  to  su]ipose  that 
he  was  capable  of  such  infamy  as  secretly  recog- 
nizing and  openly  disowning  his  brother's  child. 
Miss  Halcombe  humanely  and  sensibly  allowed 
all  due  force  to  the  influence  of  prejudice  and 
alarm  in  preventing  him  from  fairly  exercising 
his  perceptions,  and  accounted  for  what  had 
happened  in  that  way.  But  when  she  next  put 
the  servants  to  the  test,  and  found  that  they 
too  were,  in  every  case,  uncertain,  to  say  the 
least  of  it,  whether  the  lady  presented  to  them 
was  their  young  mistress  or  Anne  Catherick,  of 
whose  resemblance  to  her  they  had  all  heard, 
the  sad  conclusion  was  inevitable,  that  the 
change  produced  in  Lady  Clyde's  face  and 
manner  by  her  imprisonment  in  the  Asylum 
was  far  more  serious  than  Miss  Halcombe  had 
at  first  supposed.  The  vile  deception  which 
had  asserted  her  death  defied  exposure  even  in 
the  house  where  she  was  born,  and  among  the 
people  with  whom  she  had  lived. 

In  a  less  critical  situation  the  effort  need  not 
have  been  given  up  as  hopeless  even  yet. 


180 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


For  example,  the  maid  Fanny,  who  happened 
to  be  then  absent  from  Limnieridge,  was  ex- 
pected back  in  two  days ;  and  there  would  be  a 
chance  of  gaining  her  recognition  to  start  with, 
seeing  that  she  had  been  in  much  more  constant 
communication  with  her  mistress,  and  had  been 
much  more  heartily  attached  to  her  than  the 
other  servants.  Again,  Lady  Glyde  might  have 
been  privately  kept  in  the  house,  or  in  the  vil- 
lage, to  wait  until  her  health  was  a  little  recov- 
ered, and  her  mind  was  a  little  steadied  again. 
When  her  memory  could  be  once  more  trusted 
to  serve  her  she  would  naturally  refer  to  per- 
sons and  events  in  the  past  with  a  certainty  and 
a  familiarity  which  no  impostor  could  simulate ; 
and  so  the  fact  of  her  identity,  which  her  own 
appearance  had  failed  to  establish,  might  sub- 
sequently be  proved,  with  time  to  help  her,  by 
the  surer  test  of  her  own  words. 

But  the  circumstances  under  which  she  had 
regained  her  freedom  rendered  all  recourse  to 
such  means  as  these  simply  impracticable.  The 
pursuit  from  the  Asylum,  diverted  to  Hampshire 
for  the  time  only,  would  infallibly  next  take  the 
direction  of  Cumberland.  The  persons  ap- 
pointed to  seek  the  fugitive  might  arrive  at 
Limmeridge  House  at  a  few  hours'  notice,  and 
in  Mr.  Fairlie's  present  temper  of  mind  they 
might  count  on  the  immediate  exertion  of  his 
local  influence  and  authority  to  assist  them. 
The  commonest  consideration  for  Lady  Glyde's 
safety  forced  on  Miss  Halcombe  the  necessity 
of  resigning  the  struggle  to  do  her  justice,  and 
of  removing  her  at  once  from  the  place  of  all 
others  that  was  now  most  dangerous  to  her — 
the  neighborhood  of  her  own  home. 

An  immediate  return  to  London  was  the  first 
and  wisest  measure  of  security  which  suggest- 
ed itself.  In  the  great  city  all  traces  of  them 
might  be  most  speedily  and  most  surely  effaced. 
There  were  no  preparations  to  make — no  fare- 
well words  of  kindness  to  exchange  with  any 
one.  On  the  afternoon  of  that  memorable  day 
of  the  sixteenth  Miss  Halcombe  roused  her  sis- 
ter to  a  last  exertion  of  courage ;  and,  without 
a  living  soul  to  wish  them  well  at  parting,  the 
two  took  their  way  into  the  world  alone,  and 
turned  their  backs  forever  on 
House. 

They  had  passed  the  hill  above  the  church- 
yard, when  Lady  Glyde  insisted  on  turning 
back  to  look  her  last  at  her  mother's  grave. 
Miss  Halcombe  tried  to  shake  her  resolution  ; 
but  in  this  one  instance  tried  in  vain.  She 
was  immovable.  Her  dim  eyes  lit  witli  a  sud- 
den fire,  and  flashed  through  tlie  vail  that  hung 
over  them ;  her  wasted  fingers  strengthened, 
moment  by  moment,  round  the  friendly  arm  by 
which  they  had  held  so  listlessly  till  this  time. 
I  believe  in  my  soul  that  the  Hand  of  God  was 
pointing  their  way  back  to  them,  and  tluit  the 
most  innocent  and  the  most  afflicted  of  His 
creatures  was  chosen,  in  that  dread  moment,  to 
see  it. 

•  They  retraced  their  steps  to  the  burial-ground, 
and  by  that  act  sealed  the  future  of  our  three 
lives. 

m. 

This  was  the  story  of  the  past — the  story,  so 
far  as  we  knew  it  then. 
Two  obvious  conclusions  presented  themselves 


Limmeridge 


to  my  mind  after  hearing  it.  In  the  first  place, 
I  saw  darkly  what  the  nature  of  the  conspiracy 
had  been;  how  chances  had  been  watched,  and 
how  circumstances  had  been  handled  to  insure 
impunity  to  a  daring  and  an  intricate  crime. 
While  all  details  were  still  a  mystery  to  me, 
the  vile  manner  in  which  the  personal  resem- 
blance between  the  Woman  inWliite  and  Lady 
Glyde  had  been  turned  to  account  was  clear  be- 
yond a  doubt.  It  was  plain  that  Anne  Cather- 
ick  had  been  introduced  into  Count  Fosco's 
house  as  Lady  Glyde ;  it  was  plain  that  Lady 
Glyde  had  taken  the  dead  woman's  place  in  the 
Asylum — the  substitution  having  been  so  man- 
aged as  to  make  innocent  people  (the  doctor  and 
the  two  servants  certainly,  and  tiie  owner  of  the 
mad-house  in  all  probability)  accomplices  in  the 
crime. 

The  second  conclusion  came  as  the  necessarj' 
consequence  of  the  first.  We  tlu-ee  had  no 
mercy  to  expect  from  Count  Fosco  and  Sir 
Percival  Glyde.  The  success  of  the  conspiracy 
had  brought  with  it  a  clear  gain  to  those  two 
men  of  thirty  thousand  pounds — twenty  thou- 
sand to  one,  ten  thousand  to  the  other,  through 
his  wife.  They  had  that  interest,  as  well  as 
other  interests,  in  insuring  their  impunity  from 
exposure ;  and  they  would  leave  no  stone  un- 
turned, no  sacrifice  unattempted,  no  treachery 
untried,  to  discover  the  place  in  wliich  their 
victim  was  concealed,  and  to  ]iart  her  from  the 
only  friends  she  had  in  the  world— Marian  Hal- 
combe and  myself 

The  sense  of  this  serious  peril — a  peril  which 
every  day  and  every  hour  might  bring  nearer 
and  nearer  to  us — was  the  one  influence  that 
guided  me  in  fixing  the  place  of  our  retreat. 
I  chose  it  in  the  far  East  of  London,  where 
there  were  fewest  idle  people  to  lounge  and 
look  about  them  in  the  streets.  I  ciiose  it  in 
a  poor  and  a  populous  neighborhood — because 
the  harder  the  struggle  for  existence  among  the 
men  and  women  about  us,  the  less  the  chance 
of  their  having  the  time  or  taking  the  pains  to 
notice  chance  strangers  who  came  among  them. 
These  were  the  great  advantages  I  looked  to ; 
but  our  locality  was  a  gain  to  us  also,  in  an- 
other and  a  hardly  less  important  respect.  We 
could  live  cheaply  by  the  daily  work  of  my 
hands,  and  could  save  every  farthing  we  pos- 
sessed to  forward  the  purpose — the  righteous  pur- 
]50se — of  redressing  an  infamous  wrong,  wiiich, 
from  first  to  last,  I  now  kept  steadily  in  view. 

In  a  week's  time  Marian  Halcombe  and  I  had 
settled  how  the  course  of  our  new  lives  should 
be  directed. 

There  were  no  other  lodgers  in  the  house; 
and  we  had  the  means  of  going  in  and  out  with- 
out passing  through  the  shop.  I  arranged,  for 
the  present  at  least,  that  neither  Marian  nor 
Laura  should  stir  outside  the  door  without  my 
being  with  them  ;  and  that  in  my  absence  from 
home  they  should  let  no  one  into  their  rooms 
on  any  pretense  whatever.  Tiiis  rule  estab- 
lished, I  went  to  a  friend  whom  I  had  known  in 
former  days — a  wood  engraver  in  large  i)ractice 
— to  seek  for  emiiloyment;  telling  him  at  the 
same  time  that  I  had  reasons  for  wishing  to  re- 
main unknown.  He  at  once  concluded  that  I 
was  in  debt;  expressed  his  regret  in  the  usual 
forms  ;  and  then  promised  to  do  what  he  could 
to  assist  me.     I  left  his  false  impression  undis- 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


181 


turbed,  and  accepted  the  work  he  had  to  give. 
He  knew  that  he  could  trust  my  experience  and 
my  industry.  I  had,  what  he  wanted,  steadi- 
ness and  facility;  and  though  my  earnings  were 
but  small  they  sufficed  for  our  necessities.  As 
soon  as  we  could  feel  certain  of  this,  Marian 
Halcombe  and  I  put  together  what  we  possessed. 
She  had  between  two  and  three  hundred  pounds 
left  of  her  own  property;  and  I  had  nearly  as 
much  remaining  from  the  purchase-money  ob- 
tained by  the  sale  of  my  drawing-master's  prac- 
tice before  I  left  England.  Together  we  made 
up  between  us  more  than  four  hundred  pounds. 
I  deposited  this  little  fortune  in  a  bank,  to  be 
kept  for  the  expense  of  those  secret  inquiries 
and  investigations  which  I  was  determined  to 
set  on  foot,  and  to  carry  on  by  myself  if  I  could 
iind  no  one  to  help  me.  We  calculated  our 
weekly  expenditure  to  the  last  farthing ;  and  we 
never  touched  our  little  fund  except  in  Laura's 
interests  and  for  Laura's  sake. 

The  house-work,  which,  if  we  had  dared  trust 
a  stranger  near  us,  would  have  been  done  by  a 
servant,  was  taken  on  the  first  day,  taken  as  her 
own  right,  by  Marian  Halcombe.  "What  a 
woman's  hands  are  fit  for,"  she  said,  "eai'ly  and 
late  these  hands  of  mine  shall  do."  They  trem- 
bled as  she  held  them  out.  The  wasted  arms 
told  their  sad  story  of  the  past  as  she  turned  up 
the  sleeves  of  the  poor  plain  dress  that  she  wore 
for  safety's  sake ;  but  the  unquenchable  spirit 
of  the  woman  burned  bright  in  her  even  yet.  I 
saw  the  big  tears  rise  thick  in  her  eyes  and  fall 
slowly  over  her  cheeks  as  she  looked  at  mc. 
She  dashed  theni  away  with  a  toucli  of  her  old 
energy,  and  smiled  with  a  faint  reflection  of  her 
old  good  spirits.  "Don't  doubt  my  courage, 
Walter,"  she  pleaded;  "it's  my  weakness  that 
cries,  not  me.  The  house-work  shall  conquer  it, 
if /can't."  And  she  kept  her  word — the  victory 
was  won  when  we  met  in  the  evening,  and  she 
sat  down  to  rest.  Her  lai-ge  steady  black  eyes 
looked  at  me  with  a  flash  of  their  bright  firm- 
ness of  by-gone  days.  "I  am  not  quite  broken 
down  yet, "  she  said ;  "  I  am  worth  trusting  with 
my  share  of  the  work."  Before  I  could  answer, 
she  added  in  a  whisper,  "And  worth  trusting 
with  my  share  in  the  risk  and  the  danger  too. 
Ecmember  that,  if  the  time  comes !" 

I  did  remember  it  when  the  time  came. 

As  early  as  the  end  of  October  the  daily 
course  of  our  lives  had  assumed  its  settled  direc- 
tion, and  we  three  were  as  completely  isolated 
in  our  place  of  concealment  as  if  the  house  we 
lived  in  had  been  a  desert  island,  and  the  great 
net-work  of  streets  and  the  thousands  of  our 
fellow-creatures  all  round  us  the  waters  of  an 
illimitable  sea.  I  could  now  reckon  on  some 
leisure-time  for  considering  what  my  future  plan 
of  action  should  be,  and  how  I  might  arm  my- 
self most  securelv  at  the  ovitset  for  the  comins 
struggle  with  Sir  Percival  and  the  Count. 

I  gave  up  all  hope  of  appealing  to  my  recog- 
nition of  Laura,  or  to  Marian's  recognition  of 
her,  in  proof  of  her  identity.  If  we  had  loved 
her  less  dearly,  if  the  instinct  implanted  in  us 
by  that  love  had  not  been  far  more  certain  than 
any  exercise  of  reasoning,  far  keener  than  any 
process  of  observation,  even  we  might  have 
hesitated  on  first  seeing  her.  The  outward 
changes  wrought  by  the^suiFering  and  the  ter- 


ror of  the  past  had  fearfully,  almost  hopeless- 
ly, strengthened  the  fatal  resemblance  between 
Anne  Catherick  and  herself.  In  my  narrative 
of  events  at  the  time  of  my  residence  at  Lim- 
meridge  House  I  have  recorded,  from  my  own 
observation  of  the  two,  how  the  likeness,  striking 
as  it  was  when  viewed  generally,  failed  in  many 
important  points  of  similarity  when  tested  in 
detail.  In  those  former  days,  if  they  had  both 
been  seen  together  side  by  side,  no  person  could 
for  a  moment  have  mistaken  tliem  one  for  the 
other — as  has  happened  often  in  the  instances 
of  twins.  I  could  not  say  this  now.  The  sorrow 
and  suftering  which  I  had  once  blamed  myself 
for  associating  even  by  a  passing  thought  with 
the  future  of  Laura  Fairlie,  had  set  their  profan- 
ing marks  on  the  j-outh  and  beauty  of  her  face; 
and  the  fatal  resemblance  which  I  had  once  seen 
and  shuddered  at  seeing,  in  idea  only,  was  now  a 
real  and  living  resemblance  which  asserted  itself 
before  my  own  eyes.  Strangers,  acquaintances, 
friends  even,  who  could  not  look  at  her  as  we 
looked,  if  she  had  been  sliown  to  them  in  the 
first  days  of  her  rescue  from  the  Asylum,  might 
have  doubted  if  she  were  the  Laura  Fairlie  they 
had  once  known,  and  doubted  without  blame. 

The  one  remaining  chance,  which  I  had  at 
first  thought  might  be  trusted  to  serve  us — the 
chance  of  appealing  to  her  recollection  of  persons 
and  events  with  which  no  impostor  could  be  fa- 
miliar, was  proved,  by  tlie  sad  test  of  our  later 
experience,  to  be  hopeless.  Every  little  caution 
that  Marian  and  I  practiced  toward  her;  every 
little  remedy  we  tried  to  strengthen  and  steady 
slowly  the  weakened,  sliaken  faculties,  was  a 
fresh  protest  in  itself  against  the  risk  of  turning 
her  mind  back  on  the  troubled  and  the  terrible 
past. 

The  only  events  of  former  days  which  we  ven- 
tured on  encouraging  her  to  recall,  were  the  lit- 
tle trivial  domestic  events  of  that  hajipy  time  at 
Limmeridge  when  I  first  went  there  and  taught 
her  to  draw.  The  daj'  when  I  roused  those  re- 
membrances, by  showing  her  the  sketch  of  the 
summer-house  which  she  had  given  me  on  the 
morning  of  our  farewell,  and  which  had  never 
been  separated  from  me  since,  was  the  birth-day 
of  our  first  hope.  Tenderh'  and  gradually  the 
memory  of  the  old  walks  and  drives  dawned  upon 
her;  and  the  poor  weary  pining  eyes  looked  at 
Marian  and  at  me  with  a  new  interest — with 
a  faltering  thoughtfulness  in  them  which  from 
that  moment  we  cherished  and  kept  alive.  I 
bought  her  a  little  box  of  colors,  and  a  sketch- 
book like  the  old  sketch-book  which  I  had  seen 
in  her  hands  on  the  morning  when  we  first  met. 
Once  again — oh  me,  once  again ! — at  spare  hours 
saved  from  my  work,  in  the  dull  London  light, 
in  the  poor  London  room,  I  sat  by  her  side,  to 
guide  the  faltering  touch,  to  help  the  feeble  hand. 
Day  by  day  I  raised  and  raised  the  new  interest 
till  its  place  in  the  blank  of  her  existence  was  at 
last  assured — till  she  could  think  of  her  draw- 
ing, and  talk  of  it,  and  patiently  practice  it  by 
herself,  with  some  faint  reflection  of  the  inno- 
cent pleasure  in  my  encouragement,  the  grow- 
ing enjoyment  in  her  own  progress  which  be- 
longed to  the  lost  life  and  the  lost  happiness  of 
past  days. 

We  helped  her  mind  slowly  by  this  simple 
means ;  we  took  her  out  between  us  to  walk,  on 
fine  days,  in  a  quiet  old  City  square,  near  at 


182 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


hand,  where  there  was  nothinfj  to  confuse  or 
alarm  her;  we  spared  a  few  pounds  from  the 
fund  at  the  banker's  to  p;et  her  wine  and  the  del- 
icate strenjTthening  food  that  slie  required ;  we 
amused  her  in  the  evenings  with  children's  games 
at  cards,  with  scrap-books  full  of  prints  which  I 
borrowed  from  the  engraver  who  emjjloyed  me — 
by  these,  and  other  trifling  attentions  like  them, 
we  composed  her  and  steadied  her,  and  hoi)ed  all 
things,  as  cheerfully  as  we  could,  from  time  and 
care,  and  love  that  never  neglected  and  never 
despaired  of  her.  But  to  take  her  mercilessly 
from  seclusion  and  repose ;  to  confront  her  with 
strangers,  or  with  acquaintances  who  were  little 
better  than  strangers ;  to  rouse  the  painful  im- 
pressions of  her  past  life  which  we  had  so  care- 
fully hushed  to  rest — this,  even  in  her  own  in- 
terests, we  dared  not  do.  Whatever  sacrifices 
it  cost,  whatever  long,  weary,  heart-breaking 
delays  it  involved,  the  wrong  that  had  been  in- 
flicted on  her,  if  mortal  means  could  grapple  it, 
must  be  redressed  without  her  knowledge  and 
without  her  help. 

This  resolution  settled,  it  was  next  necessary 
to  decide  how  the  first  risk  should  be  ventured, 
and  what  the  first  proceedings  should  be. 

After  consulting  with  Marian,  I  resolved  to 
begin  by  gathering  together  as  many  facts  as 
could  be  collected,  then  to  ask  the  advice  of 
Mr.  Kyrle  (whom  we  knew  we  could  trust),  and 
to  ascertain  from  him,  in  the  first  instance,  if 
the  legal  remedy  lay  fairly  within  our  reacli.  I 
owed  it  to  Laura's  interests  not  to  stake  her 
whole  future  on  my  own  unaided  exertions,  so 
long  as  there  was  the  faintest  prospect  of 
strengthening  our  position  by  obtaining  reliable 
assistance  of  any  kind. 

The  first  source  of  information  to  which  I  ap- 
plied was  the  journal  kept  at  Blackwater  Park 
by  Marian  Halcombe.  There  were  passages  in 
this  diary,  relating  to  myself,  which  she  thought 
it  best  that  I  should  not  see.  Accordingly,  she 
read  to  me  from  the  manuscript,  and  I  took  the 
notes  I  wanted  as  she  went  on.  We  could  only 
find  time  to  pursue  this  occupation  by  sitting  up 
late  at  night.  Three  nights  were  devoted  to  the 
purpose,  and  were  enough  to  put  me  in  jjosses- 
sion  of  all  that  Marian  could  tell. 

My  next  proceeding  was  to  gain  as  much  ad- 
ditional evidence  as  I  could  procure  from  other 
people,  without  exciting  suspicion.  I  went  my- 
self to  Mrs.  Vesey  to  ascertain  if  Laura's  im- 
pression of  having  slept  there  was  correct  or 
not.  In  this  case,  from  consideration  for  Mrs. 
Vesey's  age  and  infirmity,  and  in  all  subse- 
quent cases  of  the  same  kind  from  considera- 
tions of  caution,  I  kept  our  real  ])osition  a  se- 
cret, and  was  always  careful  to  speak  of  Laura 
as  "the  late  Lady  "Glyde." 

Mrs.  Vesey's  answer  to  my  inquiries  only 
confirmed  the  apprehensions  which  I  had  pre- 
viously felt.  Laura  had  certainly  written  to  say 
she  would  pass  the  night  under  the  roof  of  her 
old  friend,  but  she  had  never  been  near  the 
house.  Her  mind,  in  this  instance,  and,  as  I 
feared,  in  otiier  instances  besides,  confusedly 
presented  to  her  something  which  she  had  only 
intended  to  do  in  tlie  false  light  of  something 
which  she  had  really  done.  The  unconscious 
contradiction  of  herself  was  easy  to  account  for 
in  this  way,  but  it  was  likely  to  lead  to  serious 
results,     it  was  a  stumble  on  the  threshold  at 


stalling ;   it  was  a  flaw  in  the  evidence  which 
told  fatally  against  us. 

I  next  instructed  Marian  to  write  (observing 
the  same  caution  which  I  practiced  myself)  to 
Mrs.  Michelson.  She  was  to  express',  if  she 
pleased,  some  general  suspicion  of  Count  Fos- 
co's  conduct ;  and  she  was  to  ask  the  housekeep- 
er to  supply  us  with  a  plain  statement  of  events, 
in  the  interests  of  truth.  While  we  were  wait- 
ing for  the  answer,  which  reached  us  in  a  week's 
time,  I  went  to  the  doctor  in  St.  John's  Wood, 
introducing  myself  as  sent  by  Miss  Halcombe 
to  collect,  if  possible,  more  particulars  of  her 
sister's  last  illness  than  Mr.  Kyrle  had  found 
the  time  to  procure.  By  Mr.  Goodricke's  as- 
sistance, I  obtained  a  copy  of  the  certificate  of 
death,  and  an  interview  with  the  woman  (Jane 
Gould)  who  had  been  employed  to  prepare  the 
body  for  the  grave.  Through  this  person  I  also 
discovered  a  means  of  communicating  with  the 
servant,  Hester  Pinhorn.  She  had  recently  left 
her  place,  in  consequence  of  a  disagreement  with 
her  mistress ;  and  she  was  lodging  with  some 
people  in  the  neighborhood  whom  Mrs.  Gould 
knew.  In  the  manner  here  indicated,  I  obtained 
the  Narratives  of  the  housekeeper,  of  the  doctor, 
of  Jane  Gould,  and  of  Hester  Pinhorn,  exactly 
as  they  are  ))resented  in  these  pages. 

Furnished  with  such  additional  evidence  as 
these  documents  afforded,  I  considered  myself 
to  be  sufficiently  prepared  for  a  consultation  with 
Mr.  Kyrle ;  and  Marian  wrote  accordingly  to 
mention  my  name  to  him,  and  to  specify  the  day 
and  hour  at  which  I  requested  permission  to  see 
him  on  private  business. 

There  was  time  enough  in  the  morning  for 
me  to  take  Laura  out  for  her  walk  as  usual,  and 
to  see  her  quietly  settled  at  her  drawing  after- 
ward. She  looked  u])  at  me  with  a  new  anxiety 
in  her  face  as  I  rose  to  leave  the  room,  and  her 
fingers  began  to  toy  doubtfully,  in  the  old  way, 
with  the  brushes  and  pencils  on  the  table. 

"You  are  not  tired  of  me  yet?"  she  said. 
"You  are  not  going  away  because  you  are  tired 
of  me  ?  I  will  try  to  do  better — I  will  try  to  get 
well.  Are  you  as  fond  of  me,  Walter,  as  you 
used  to  be,  now  I  am  so  pale  and  thin,  and  so 
slow  in  learning  to  draw?" 

She  spoke  as  a  child  might  have  spoken  ;  she 
showed  me  her  thoughts  as  a  child  might  have 
shown  them.  I  waited  a  few  minutes  longer — 
waited  to  tell  her  that  she  was  dearer  to  me 
now  than  she  had  ever  been  in  the  past  times. 
"Try  to  get  well  again,"  I  said,  encouraging 
the  new  hope  in  the  future  which  I  saw  dawn- 
ing in  her  mind;  "try  to  get  well  again,  for 
Marian's  sake  and  for  mine." 

"Yes,"  she  said  to  herself,  returning  to  her 
drawing.  "I  must  try,  because  they  are  both 
so  fond  of  me."  She  suddenly  looked  up  again. 
"Don't  be  gone  long!  I  can't  get  on  with  my 
drawing,  Walter,  when  you  are  not  here  to  helj) 
me." 

"I  shall  soon  be  back,  my  darling — soon  bo 
back  to  see  how  you  are  getting  on." 

My  voice  faltered  a  little  in  spite  of  me.  I 
forced  myself  from  the  room.  It  was  no  time 
then  for  parting  with  the  self-control  which 
might  yet  serve  me  in  my  need  before  the  day 
was  out. 

As  I  opened  the  door  I  beckoned  to  Marian 
to  follow  me  to  the  stairs.     It  was  necessary 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


183 


to  prepare  her  for  a  result  which  I  felt  might 
sooner  or  later  follow  my  showing  myself  open- 
ly in  the  streets. 

"I  shall,  in  all  probability,  be  back  in  a  few 
hours,"  I  said;  "and  you  will  take  care,  as 
usual,  to  let  no  one  inside  the  doors  in  my  ab- 
sence.    But  if  any  thing  happens — " 

"What  can  happen?"  she  interposed,  quick- 
ly. "Tell  me  plainly,  Walter,  if  there  is  any 
danger,  and  I  shall  know  how  to  meet  it." 

"The  only  danger,"  I  replied,  "is  that  Sir 
Percival  Glyde  may  have  been  recalled  to  Lon- 
don by  the  news  of  Laura's  escape.  You  are 
aware  that  he  had  me  watched  before  I  left  En- 
gland ;  and  that  he  probably  knows  me  by  sight, 
although  I  don't  know  him  ?" 

She  laid  her  hand  on  my  shoulder  and  looked 
at  me  in  anxious  silence.  I  saw  she  understood 
the  serious  risk  that  threatcTied  us. 

"It  is  not  likely,"  I  said,  "that  I  shall  be 
seen  in  London  again  so  soon,  either  by  Sir 
Percival  himself  or  by  the  ])ersons  in  his  em- 
ploy. But  it  is  barely  possible  that  an  accident 
may  happen.  In  that  case,  you  will  not  be 
alarmed  if  I  fail  to  return  to-night ;  and  you 
will  satisfy  any  inquiries  of  Laura's  with  the 
best  excuse  that  you  can  make  for  me  ?  If  I 
find  the  least  reason  to  suspect  that  I  am 
watched,  I  will  take  good  care  that  no  s])y  fol- 
lows me  back  to  this  house.  Don't  doubt  my 
return,  Marian,  however  it  may  be  delayed,  and 
fear  nothing." 

"Nothing!"  she  answered,  firmly.  "You 
shall  not  regret,  Walter,  that  you  have  only  a 
woman  to  help  you."  She  paused,  and  de- 
tained me  for  a  moment  longer.  "  Take  care !" 
she  said,  pressing  my  hand  anxiously — "  take 
care !" 

I  left  her  and  set  forth  to  pave  the  way  for 
discovery — the  dark  and  doubtful  way,  which 
began  at  the  lawyer's  door. 

IV. 

No  circumstance  of  the  slightest  importance 
happened  on  my  way  to  the  offices  of  Messrs. 
Gilmore  and  Kyrle,  in  Chancery  Lane. 

While  my  card  was  being  taken  in  to  Mr. 
Kyrle,  a  consideration  occurred  to  me  which  I 
deeply  regretted  not  having  thought  of  before. 
The  information  derived  from  Marian's  diary 
made  it  a  matter  of  certainty  that  Count  Fosco 
had  opened  her  fii'st  letter  from  Blackwater  Park 
to  Mr.  Kyrle,  and  had,  by  means  of  his  wife, 
intercepted  the  second.  lie  was,  therefore,  well 
aware  of  tlie  address  of  the  office,  and  he  would 
naturally  infer  that  if  Marian  wanted  advice  and 
assistance  after  Laura's  escape  from  the  Asylum 
she  would  apply  once  more  to  the  experience  of 
Mr.  Kyrle.  In  this  case,  the  office  in  Chancery 
Lane  was  the  very  first  place  wliich  he  and  Sir 
Percival  would  cause  to  be  watched  ;  and  if  the 
same  persons  were  chosen  for  the  purpose  who 
had  been  employed  to  follow  me  before  my  de- 
parture from  England,  the  fact  of  my  return 
would,  in  all  probability,  be  ascei'tained  on  that 
very  day.  I  had  thought,  generally,  of  the 
chances  of  my  being  recognized  in  the  streets ; 
but  the  special  risk  connected  with  the  office 
had  never  occurred  to  me  until  the  present  mo- 
ment. It  was  too  late  now  to  repair  this  un- 
fortunate error  in  judgment — too  late  to  wish 
that  1  had  made  arrangements  for  meeting  the 


lawyer  in  some  place  privately  appointed  be- 
forehand. I  could  only  resolve  ,to  be  cautious 
on  leaving  Chancery  Lane,  and  not  to  go 
straight  home  again  under  any  circumstances 
whatever. 

After  waiting  a  few  minutes,  I  was  shown 
into  Mr.  Kyrle's  private  room.  He  was  a  pale, 
thin,  quiet,  self-possessed  man,  with  a  very  at- 
tentive eye,  a  very  low  voice,  and  a  very  unde- 
monstrative manner;  not  (as  I  judged)  ready 
with  his  sympathy  where  strangers  were  con- 
cerned, and  not  at  all  easy  to  disturb  in  his  pro- 
fessional composure.  A  better  man  for  my  ])ur- 
pose  could  hardly  have  been  found.  If  he  com- 
mitted himself  to  a  decision  at  all,  and  if  the 
decision  was  favorable,  the  strength  of  our  case 
was  as  good  as  ])roved  from  that  moment. 

"Before  I  enter  on  the  business  which  brings 
me  here,"  I  said,  "I  ought  to  warn  you,  Mr. 
Kyrle,  that  the  shortest  statement  I  can  make 
of  it  maj'  occupy  some  little  time." 

"My  time  is  at  Miss  Halcombe's  disposal," 
he  replied.  "Where  any  interests  of  hers  are 
concerned,  I  represent  my  partner  personally  as 
well  as  professionally.  It  was  his  recjuest  that 
I  should  do  so  when  he  ceased  to  take  an  active 
part  in  business." 

"  May  I  inquire  whether  Mr.  Gilmore  is  in 
England?" 

"  lie  is  not:  he  is  living  with  his  relatives  in 
Germany.  Ilis  health  has  improved,  but  the 
period  of  his  return  is  still  uncertain." 

While  we  were  exchanging  these  few  prelim- 
inary words  he  had  been  searching  among  the 
jiajjcrs  before  him,  and  he  now  produced  from 
them  a  sealed  letter.  I  thought  he  was  about 
to  hand  the  letter  to  me  ;  but,  apjjarently  chang- 
ing his  mind,  he  placed  it  by  itself  on  the  table, 
settled  himself  in  his  chair,  and  silently  waited 
to  hear  what  I  had  to  say. 

Without  wasting  a  moment  in  prefatory  words 
of  any  sort  I  entered  on  my  narrative,  and  put 
him  in  full  possession  of  the  events  which  have 
already  been  related  in  these  pages. 

Lawyer  as  he  was  to  the  very  marrow  of  his 
bones,  I  startled  him  out  of  his  professional 
com]iosure.  Expressions  of  incredulity  and 
surprise  which  he  could  not  rc])ress  interrupt- 
ed me  several  times  before  I  had  done. '  I  per- 
severed, however,  to  the  end,  and  as  soon  as  I 
reached  it  boldly  asked  the  one  important  ques- 
tion, 

"What  is  your  opinion,  Mr.  Kyrle?" 

He  was  too  cautious  to  commit  himself  to  an 
answer  without  taking  time  to  recover  his  self- 
possession  first. 

"Before  I  give  my  opinion,"  he  said,  "I must 
beg  jiermission  to  clear  the  ground  by  a  few  ques- 
tions." 

He  put  the  questions — sharp,  suspicious,  un- 
believing questions,  which  clearly  showed  me, 
as  they  proceeded,  that  he  thought  I  was  the 
victim  of  a  delusion  ;  and  that  he  might  even 
have  doubted,  but  for  my  introduction  to  him  by 
Miss  Halcombe,  whether  I  was  not  attempting 
the  ])erpetration  of  a  cunningly-designed  fraud. 

"  Do  you  believe  that  I  liave  spoken  the  truth, 
Mr.  Kyrle  ?"  I  asked,  when  he  had  done  exam- 
ining me. 

"  So  far  as  your  own  convictions  are  con- 
cerned I  am  certain  you  have  spoken  the  truth," 
he  replied.      "I  have  the  highest  esteem  for 


184 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


Miss  Halcombe,  and  I  have  therefore  every 
reason  to  respect  a  gentleman  whose  mediation 
she  trusts  in  a  matter  of  this  kind.  I  will  even 
go  farther,  if  you  like,  and  admit,  for  courtesy's 
sake  and  for  argument's  sake,  that  the  identi- 
ty of  Lady  Glyde  as  a  living  person  is  a  proved 
fact  to  Miss  Halcombe  and  yourself.  But  you 
come  to  me  for  a  legal  opinion.  As  a  lawyer, 
and  as  a  lawyer  only,  it  is  my  duty  to  tell  you, 
Mr.  Hartright,  that  you  have  not  the  shadow 
of  a  case." 

"You  put  it  strongly,  Mr.  Kyrle." 
"  I  will  try  to  put  it  plainly  as  well.    The  evi- 
dence of  Lady  Glyde's  death  is,  on  the  face  of 
it,  clear  and  satisfactory.     There  is  her  aunt's 
testimony  to  prove  that  she  came  to  Count  Fos- 
co's  house,  that  she  fell  ill,  and  that  she  died. 
There  is  the  testimony  of  the  medical  certificate 
to  prove  the  death,  and  to  show  that  it  took 
place  under  natural  circumstances.     There  is 
the  fact  of  the  funeral  at  Limmeridge,  and  there 
is  the  assertion  of  the  inscription  on  the  tomb. 
That  is  the  case  you  want  to  overthrow.    What 
evidence  have  you  to  support  the  declaration  on 
your  side  that  the  person  who  died  and  was  buried 
was  not  Lady  Glyde  ?     Let  us  run  through  the 
main  points  of  your  statement  and  see  what  they 
are  worth.     Miss  Halcombe  goes  to  a  certain 
private  Asylum,  and  there  sees  a  certain  female 
patient.    It  is  known  that  a  woman  named  Anne 
Catherick,  and  bearing  an  extraordinary  per- 
sonal resemblance  to  Lady  Glyde,  escaped  from 
the  Asylum  ;  it  is  known  that  the  person  received 
there  last  July  was  received  as  Anne  Catherick 
brought  back  ;  it  is  known  that  the  gentleman 
who  brought  her  back  warned  INIr.  Fairlie  that 
it  was  part  of  her  insanity  to  be  bent  on  person- 
ating his  dead  niece ;  and  it  is  known  that  she 
did  repeatedly  declare  herself,  in  the  Asylum 
(where  no  one  believed  her),  to  be  Lady  Glyde. 
These  are  all  facts.      What  have  you  to  set 
against  them?    Miss  Halcombc's  recognition  of 
the  woman,  which  recognition  after-events  in- 
validate or  contradict.     Does  Miss  Halcombe 
assert  her  supposed  sister's  identity  to  the  owner 
of  the  Asylum,  and  take  legal  means  for  res- 
cuing her?     No:  she  secretly  bribes  a  nurse  to 
let  her  escape.    When  the  patient  has  been  re- 
leased in  this  doubtful  manner,  and  is  taken  to 
Mr.  Fairlie,  does  he  recognize  her?  is  he  stag- 
gered for  one  instant  in  his  belief  of  his  niece's 
death  ?     No.     Do  the  servants  recognize  her  ? 
No.     Is  she  kept  in  the  neighborhood  to  assert 
her  own  identity,  and  to  stand  the  test  of  fur- 
ther proceedings  ?     No  :  she  is  privately  taken 
to  London.     In  the  mean  time,  you  have  recog- 
nized her  also — but  you  are  not  a  relative ;  you 
are  not  even  an  old  friend  of  the  family.     The 
sei'vants  contradict  you ;  and  Mr.  Fairlie  contra- 
dicts Miss  Halcombe ;  and  the  supposed  Lady 
Glyde  contradicts  herself.      She  declares   she 
passed  the  night  in  London  at  a  certain  house. 
Your  own  evidence  shows  that  she  has  never 
been  near  that  house  ;  and  your  own  admission 
is,  that  her  condition  of  mind  prevents  you  from 
producing  her  any  where  to  submit  to  investiga- 
tion, and  to  speak  for  herself.    I  pass  over  minor 
points  of  evidence  on  both  sides,  to  save  time ; 
and  I  ask  you,  if  this  case  were  to  go  now  into 
a  court  of  law — to  go  before  a  jury,  bound  to 
take  facts  as  they  reasonably  appear — where  are 
your  proofs  ?" 


I  was  obliged  to  wait  and  collect  myself  be- 
fore I  could  answer  him.  It  was  the  first  time 
the  story  of  Laura  and  the  story  of  Marian  had 
been  presented  to  me  from  a  strangei-'s  point  of 
view — the  first  time  the  terrible  obstacles  that 
lay  across  our  path  had  been  made  to  show 
themselves  in  their  true  character. 

"There  can  be  no  doubt,"  I  said,  "that  the 
facts,  as  you  have  stated  them,  appear  to  tell 
against  us ;  but — " 

"But  you  think  those  facts  can  be  expLained 
away,"  interposed  Mr.  Kyrle.  "Let  me  tell 
you  the  result  of  my  experience  on  that  point. 
When  an  English  jury  has  to  choose  between  a 
plain  fiict  on  the  surface  and  a  long  explana- 
tion tinde?-  the  surface,  it  always  takes  the  fact 
in  preference  to  the  ex]jlanation.  For  exam- 
ple, Lady  Glyde  (I  call  the  lady  you  represent 
by  that  name  for  argument's  sake)  declares  she 
has  slept  at  a  certain  house,  and  it  is  proved 
that  she  has  not  slept  at  that  house.  You  ex- 
plain this  circumstance  by  entering  into  the 
state  of  her  mind,  and  deducing  from  it  a  meta- 
physical conclusion.  I  don't  say  the  conclusion 
is  wrong — I  only  say  that  the  jury  will  take  the 
fact  of  her  contradicting  herself  in  preference  to 
any  reason  for  the  contradiction  that  you  can 
offer." 

"But  is  it  not  possible,"  I  urged,  "by  dint 
of  patience  and  exertion,  to  discover  additional 
evidence?  Miss  Halcombe  and  I  have  a  few 
hundred  pounds — " 

He  looked  at  me  with^  half-suppressed  pity, 
and  shook  his  head. 

"  Consider  the  subject,  Mr.  Hartright,  from 
yoiir  own  point  of  view,"  he  said.  "If  you  are 
right  about  Sir  Fercival  Glyde  and  Count  Fosco 
(which  I  don't  admit,  mind),  every  imaginable 
difficulty  would  be  thrown  in  the  way  of  your 
getting  fresh  evidence.  I  say  nothing  about 
expenses,  because  my  partner  and  myself  would 
advance  whatever  was  necessaiy  where  Misa 
Halcombe's  interests  were  concerned.  It  is  the 
difficulties  and  the  delays  that  would  be  too 
much  for  us.  Every  obstacle  of  litigation  would 
be  put  in  our  way  ;  every  point  in  the  case 
would  be  systematically  contested — and  by  the 
time  we  had  spent  our  thousands,  instead  of  our 
hundreds,  the  final  result  would,  in  all  proba- 
bility, be  against  us.  Questions  of  identity, 
where  instances  of  personal  resemblance  are 
concerned,  are  in  themselves  the  hardest  of  all 
questions  to  settle — the  hardest,  even  when  they 
are  free  from  the  comjjlications  which  beset  the 
case  we  are  now  discussing.  I  really  see  no 
prospect  of  throwing  any  light  whatever  on  this 
extraordinary  affair.  Even  if  the  person  buried 
in  Limmeridge  church-yard  be  not  Lady  Glyde, 
'  she  was,  in  life,  on  your  own  showing,  so  like 
her,  that  we  should  gain  nothing  if  we  applied 
for  the  necessary  authority  to  have  the  body  ex- 
j  humed.  In  short,  there  'is  no  case,  Mr.  Hai-t- 
right — there  is  really  no  case." 
I  I  was  determined  to  believe  that  there  was 
'  a  case,  and  in  tliat  determination  shifted  my 
i  ground  and  appealed  to  him  once  more. 

"Are  there  not  other  jtroofs  tliat  we  might 
produce  besides  the  j)roof  of  identity?"  I  asked. 
"  Not  as  you  are  situated,"  he  replied.  "  The 
simplest  and  surest  of  all  proofs,  the  jjroof  by 
comparison  of  dates,  is,  as  I  understand,  alto- 
gether out  of  your  reach.     If  you  could  show  a 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


185 


HE    LOOKED  ME   ATTENTIVELY   IN   THE    FACE,  WITH   MORE    APPEARANCE   OF    INTEREST  THAN   HE 

HAD    SHOWN   YET." 


discrepancy  between  the  date  of  the  doctor's 
certificate  and  the  date  of  Lad}'  Clyde's  journey 
to  Loudon,  the  matter  would  wear  a  totally  dif- 
ferent aspect ;  and  I  should  be  the  first  to  say, 
Let  us  c;o  on." 

"That  date  may  yet  be  recovered,  Mr.  Kyrle." 

"  On  the  day  when  it  is  recovered,  Mr.  "llart- 
right,  you  Mill  have  a  case.  If  you  have  any 
prospect,  at  this  moment,  of  getting  at  it — tell 
me,  and  we  shall  see  if  I  can  advise  you."' 

I  considered.  The  housekeeper  could  not 
help  us;  Laura  could  not  help  us;  Marian 
could  not  help  us.  In  all  probability  the  only 
persons  in  existence  who  knew  the  date  were 
Sir  Percival  and  the  Count. 

"I  can  think  of  no  means  of  ascertaining  the 
date  at  present,"  I  said,  "  because  I  can  tliink 
of  no  persons  who  are  sure  to  know  it  but 
Count  Fosco  and  Sir  Percival  Clyde." 

Mr.  Kyrle's  calmly-attentive  face  relaxed,  for 
the  first  time,  into  a  smile. 

"With  your  opinion  of  the  conduct  of  those 
two  gentlemen,"  he  said,  "j'ou  don't  expect 
help  in  that  quarter,  I  presume  ?  If  they  have 
combined  to  gain  large  sums  of  money  by  a  con- 
spiracy, they  are  not  likely  to  confess  it,  at  any 
rate." 


"They  may  be  forced  to  confess  it,  Mr. 
Kyrle." 

"Bv  whom?" 

"Byrne." 

We  both  rose.  He  looked  me  attentively  in 
the  face,  with  more  appearance  of  interest  than 
he  had  shown  yet.  I  could  see  that  I  had  per- 
plexed him  a  little. 

"You  are  very  determined," he  said.  "You 
have,  no  doubt,  a  personal  motive  for  proceed- 
ing, into  which  it  is  not  my  business  to  inquire. 
If  a  case  can  be  produced  in  the  future,  I  can 
only  say  my  best  assistance  is  at  your  service. 
At  the  same  time  I  must  warn  you,  as  the 
money  question  always  enters  into  the  law 
question,  that  I  see  little  hope,  even  if  }'ou  ul- 
timately established  the  fact  of  Lady  Clyde's 
being  alive,  of  recovering  her  fortune.  The 
foreigner  would  probably  leave  the  country  be- 
fore proceedings  were  commenced ;  and  Sir 
Percival's  emljarrassments  are  numerous  enough 
and  pressing  enough  to  transfer  almost  any  sum 
of  money  he  may  possess  from  himself  to  his 
creditors.     You  are,  of  course,  aware — " 

I  stopped  him  at  that  point. 

"Let  me  lieg  that  we  may  not  discuss  Lady 
Clyde's  affairs,"  I  said.     "I  have  never  known 


186 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


any  thing  about  them  in  former  times,  and  I 
know  nothing  of  them  now — except  that  her 
fortune  is  lost.  You  are  right  in  assuming  tiiat 
I  have  personal  motives  for  stirring  in  this 
matter.  I  wish  those  motives  to  be  always  as 
disinterested  as  they  are  at  the  present  mo- 
ment— " 

He  tried  to  interpose  and  explain.  I  was  a 
little  heated,  I  suppose,  by  feeling  that  he  had 
doubted  me;  and  I  went  on  bluntly  without 
waiting  to  hear  him. 

"There  shall  be  no  money-motive,"  I  said, 
"  no  idea  of  personal  advantage  in  the  service  I 
mean  to  render  to  Lady  Glyde.  She  has  been 
cast  out  as  a  stranger  from  the  house  in  which 
she  was  born  —  a  lie  which  records  her  death 
has  been  written  on  her  mother's  tomb — and 
there  are  two  men,  alive  and  unpunished,  who 
are  responsible  for  it.  That  house  shall  open 
again  to  receive  her  in  the  presence  of  ever}- 
soul  who  followed  the  false  funeral  to  the  grave ; 
that  lie  shall  be  publicly  erased  from  the  tomb- 
stone by  the  authority  of  the  head  of  the  family  ; 
and  those  two  men  shall  answer  for  their  crime 
to  ME,  though  the  justice  that  sits  in  tribunals  is 
powerless  to  pursue  them.  I  have  given  my 
life  to  that  purpose ;  and  alone  as  I  stand,  if 
God  spares  me,  I  will  accomj)lis]i  it." 

He  drew  back  toward  his  table  and  said  no- 
thing. His  face  showed  plainly  that  he  thought 
my  delusion  had  got  the  better  of  my  reason, 
and  that  he  considered  it  totally  useless  to  give 
me  any  more  advice. 

"We  each  keep  our  opinion,  Mr.  Kyrle,"  I 
said ;  "  and  we  must  wait  till  the  events  of  the 
future  decide  between  us.  In  the  mean  time  I 
am  much  obliged  to  you  for  the  attention  you 
have  given  to  my  statement.  You  have  shown 
me  that  the  legal  remedy  lies,  in  every  sense 
of  the  word,  beyond  our  means.  We  can  not 
])roduce  the  law -proof,  and  we  are  not  rich 
enough  to  pay  the  law  ex]icnscs.  It  is  some- 
thing gained  to  know  that." 

I  bowed  and  walked  to  the  door.  He  called 
rae  back  and  gave  me  the  letter  which  I  had 
seen  him  ]dace  on  the  table  by  itself  at  the  be- 
ginning of  our  interview. 

"This  came  by  post  a  few  days  ago," he  said. 
"Perhaps  you  will  not  mind  delivering  it? 
Pray  tell  Miss  Ilalcombe  at  the  same  time  that 
I  sincerely  regret  being  thus  far  unable  to  help 
her — except  by  advice,  which  will  not  be  more 
welcome,  I  am  afraid,  to  her  than  to  you." 

I  looked  at  the  letter  while  he  was  speaking. 
It  was  addressed  to  "Miss  Ilalcombe.  Care 
of  Messrs.  Gilmore  &  Kyrle,  Chancery  Lane." 
The  handwriting  was  quite  unknown  to  me. 

On  leaving  the  room  I  asked  one  last  ques- 
tion. 

"Do  you  happen  to  know,"  I  said,  "if  Sir 
Percival  Glyde  is  still  in  Paris?" 

"He  has  returned  to  London,"  replied  Mr. 
Kyrle.  ' '  At  least  I  heard  so  from  his  solicitor, 
Avhom  I  met  yesterday." 

After  that  answer  I  went  out. 

On  leaving  the  office  the  first  precaution  to 
be  observed  was  to  abstain  from  attracting  at- 
tention by  stopping  to  look  about  me.  I  walked 
toward  one  of  the  quietest  of  the  large  squares 
on  the  north  of  Holborn — then  suddenly  stopped 
ajid  turned  round  at  a  place  where  a  long  stretch 
of  pavement  was  left  behind  mc. 


There  were  two  men  at  the  corner  of  the 
square  who  had  stopped  also,  and  who  were 
standing  talking  together.  After  a  moment's 
reflection  I  turned  back  so  as  to  pass  them. 
One  moved  as  I  came  near  and  turned  the 
corner  leading  from  the  square  into  the  street. 
The  other  remained  stationary.  I  looked  at 
him  as  I  passed,  and  instantly  recognized  one 
of  the  men  who  had  watched  me  before  1  left 
England. 

If  I  had  been  free  to  follow  my  own  instincts 
I  should  probably  have  begun  by  speaking  to  the 
man,  and  have  ended  by  knocking  him  down. 
But  I  was  bound  to  consider  consequences.  If 
I  once  placed  myself  publicly  in  the  a\  rong,  I  put 
the  weapons  at  once  into  Sir  Percival's  hands. 
There  was  no  choice  but  to  o]ipose  cunning  by 
cunning.  I  turned  into  the  street  down  which 
the  second  man  had  disappeared,  and  passed 
him  waiting  in  a  door-way.  He  was  a  stran- 
ger to  me ;  and  I  was  glad  to  make  sure  of  his 
personal  appearance  in  case  of  futiu'e  annoy- 
ance. Having  done  this  I  again  A\alked  north- 
ward till  I  reached  the  New  Poad.  There  I 
turned  aside  to  the  west  (having  the  men  be- 
hind me  all  the  time),  and  waited  at  a  point 
where  I  knew  myself  to  be  at  some  distance 
from  a  cab-stand,  until  a  fast  two-wheel  cab, 
empty,  should  h:i])i)cn  to  ])ass  mc.  One  ))asscd 
in  a  few  miniucs.  I  junqjcd  in  and  lold  the 
man  to  drive  raj)idly  toward  Hyde  Park.  There 
was  no  second  fast  cab  for  the  s))ics  behind  me. 
I  saw  them  dart  across  to  the  other  side  of  the 
road  to  follow  mc  bv  running  until  a  cab  or  u 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


187 


cab-stand  came  in  their  way.  But  I  had  the 
start  of  them,  and  when  I  stopped  the  driver 
and  got  out  they  were  nowhere  in  sight.  I 
crossed  Hyde  Park,  and  made  sure  on  the  open 
ground  that  I  was  free.  When  I  at  hxst  turned 
my  steps  homeward  it  was  not  till  many  hours 
later — not  till  after  dark. 

I  found  Marian  waiting  for  me  alone  in  the 
little  sitting-room.  She  had  persuaded  Laura 
to  go  to  rest  after  first  promising  to  show  me 
her  drawing  the  moment  I  came  in.  The  jroor 
little  dim  faint  sketch — so  trifling  in  itself,  so 
touching  in  its  associations — was  propped  up 
carefully  on  the  table  with  two  books,  and  was 
placed  where  the  faint  light  of  the  one  candle 
we  allowed  ourselves  might  fall  on  it  to  the  best 
advantage.  I  sat  down  to  look  at  the  drawing, 
and  to  tell  Marian  in  whispers  what  had  hap- 
pened. The  partition  which  divided  us  from 
the  next  room  was  so  thin  that  we  could  almost 
hear  Laura's  breathing,  and  we  might  have  dis- 
turbed her  if  we  had  spoken  aloud. 

Marian  preserved  her  composure  while  I  de- 
scribed my  interview  with  Mr.  Kyrle\  I5ut  her 
face  became  troulded  when  I  spoke  next  of  the 
men  who  had  followed  me  from  the  lawyer's 
office,  and  when  I  told  her  of  the  discovery  of 
Sir  Pcrcival's  return. 

"Bad  news,  Walter,"  she  said;  "the  worst 
news  you  could  bring.  Have  you  nothing  more 
to  telf  me?" 

"I  have  something  to  give  you,"  I  replied, 
handing  her  the  note  which  i\Ir.  Kyrle  had  con- 
tided  to  my  care. 

She  looked  at  the  address  and  recognized  the 
handwriting  instantl)'. 

"You  know  your  correspondent?"  I  said. 

"Too  well,"  sbe  answered.  "My  corre- 
spondent is  Count  Fosco." 

With  that  reply  she  opened  the  note.  Her 
face  flushed  deejily  while  she  read  it — her  eyes 
brightened  with  anger  as  she  handed  it  to  me 
to  read  in  my  turn. 

The  note  contained  these  lines : 

"Impelled  by  honorable  admiration — honor- 
able to  myself,  honorable  to  you — I  write,  mag- 
nificent Marian,  in  the  interests  of  your  tran- 
quillity, to  say  two  consoling  words  : 

"Fear  nothing ! 

"  Exercise  your  fine  natural  sense,  and  remain 
in  retirement.  Dear  and  admirable  woman ! 
invite  no  dangerous  publicity.  Resignation  is 
sublime — adopt  it.  The  modest  repose  of  home 
is  eternally  fresh — enjoy  it.  The  Storms  of  life 
pass  harmless  over  the  valley  of  Seclusion — 
dwell,  dear  lady,  in  the  valley. 

"Do  this,  and  I  authorize  you  to  fear  no- 
thing. No  new  calamity  shall  lacerate  your 
sensibilities — sensibilities  precious  to  me  as  my 
own.  You  shall  not  be  molested  ;  the  fair  com- 
panion of  your  retreat  shall  not  be  pursued. 
She  has  found  a  new  asylum  in  your  heart 
Priceless  asylum ! — I  envy  her,  and  leave  her 
there. 

"  One  last  word  of  affectionate  warning,  of  pa- 
ternal caution,  and  I  tear  myself  from  the  charm 
of  addressing  you  ;  I  close  these  fervent  lines. 

"Advance  no  farther  than  you  have  gone  al- 
ready ;  compromise  no  serious  interests  ;  threat- 
en nobody.     Do  not,  I  imjilore  you,  force  me 


into  action — Me,  the  Man  of  Action — when  it 
is  the  cherished  object  of  my  ambition  to  be  pas- 
sive, to  restrict  the  vast  reach  of  my  energies 
and  my  combinations  for  your  sake.  If  you 
have  rash  friends,  moderate  their  deploi'able 
ardor.  If  Mr.  Hartright  returns  to  England 
hold  no  communication  with  him.  I  walk  on  a 
path  of  my  own  ;  and  Percival  follows  at  my 
heels.  On  the  day  when  Mr.  Hartright  crosses 
that  path  he  is  a  lost  man." 

The  only  signature  to  these  lines  was  the  ini- 
tial letter  F,  surrounded  by  a  circle  of  intricate 
flourishes.  I  threw  the  letter  on  the  table  with 
all  the  contempt  that  I  felt  for  it. 

"  He  is  trying  to  frighten  you — a  sure  sign 
that  he  is  frightened  himself,"  I  said. 

She  was  too  genuine  a  woman  to  treat  the 
letter  as  I  treated  it.  The  insolent  familiarity 
of  the  language  was  too  much  for  her  self-con- 
trol. As  she  looked  at  me  across  the  table  her 
hands  clenched  themselves  in  her  lap,  and  the 
old  quick  fiery  temper  flamed  out  again  bright- 
ly in  her  cheeks  and  her  eyes. 

"Walter!"  she  said,  "if  ever  those  two  men 
are  at  your  mercy,  and  if  you  are  obliged  to 
spare  one  of  them — don't  let  it  be  the  Count." 

"  I  will  keep  his  letter,  Marian,  to  help  my 
memory  when  the  time  comes." 

She  looked  at  me  attentively  as  I  put  the  let- 
ter away  in  my  pocket-book. 

"When  the  time  comes?"  she  repeated. 
"  Can  you  speak  of  the  future  as  if  you  were 
certain  of  it? — certain  after  what  you  have  heard 
in  Mr.  Kyrle's  office,  after  what  has  hajjpened 
to  you  to-day?" 

"I  don't  count  the  time  from  to-day,  Marian. 
All  I  have  done  to-day  is  to  ask  another  man  to 
act  for  me.     I  count  from  to-morrow — " 

"Why  from  to-morrow?" 

"Because  to-morrow  I  mean  to  act  for  my- 
self." 

"How?" 

"  I  shall  go  to  Blackwater  by  the  first  train, 
and  return,  I  hope,  at  night," 

"To  Blackwater!" 

"Yes.  I  have  had  time  to  think  since  I  left 
Mr.  Kyrle.  His  opinion  on  one  point  confirms 
my  own.  We  must  persist  to  the  last  in  hunt- 
ing down  the  date  of  Laura's  journey.  The  one 
weak  point  in  the  conspiracy,  and  probably  the 
one  chance  of  proving  that  she  is  a  living  wo- 
man, centre  in  the  discovery  of  that  date." 

"You  mean,"  said  Marian,  "the  discovery 
that  Laura  did  not  leave  Blackwater  Park  till 
after  the  date  of  her  death  on  the  doctor's  cer- 
tificate?" 

"Certainly." 

"What  makes  you  think  it  might  have  been 
after  ?  Laura  can  tell  us  nothing  of  the  time 
she  was  in  London." 

"But  the  owner  of  the  Asylum  told  you  that 
she  was  received  there  on  the  thirtieth  of  July. 
I  doubt  Count  Fosco's  ability  to  keep  her  in 
London,  and  to  keep  her  insensible  to  all  that 
was  passing  around  her,  more  than  one  night. 
In  that  case  she  must  have  started  on  the  twen- 
ty-ninth, and  must  have  come  to  London  one 
day  after  the  date  of  her  own  death  on  the  doc- 
tor's certificate.  If  we  can  prove  that  date  we 
prove  our  case  against  Sir  Percival  and  the 
Count." 


188 


THE  WOMiLN  IN  WHITE. 


"  Yes,  yes — I  see !  But  how  is  the  proof  to 
be  obtained?" 

"  Mrs.  Michelson's  narrative  has  suggested 
to  me  two  ways  of  trying  to  obtain  it.  One  of 
them  is,  to  question  the  doctor,  Mr.  Dawson — 
who  must  know  when  he  resumed  his  attend- 
ance at  Blackwater  Park  after  Laura  left  the 
house.  The  other  is,  to  make  inquiries  at  the 
inn  to  which  Sir  Percival  drove  away  by  him- 
self at  night.  We  know  that  his  departure  fol- 
lowed Laura's,  after  the  lapse  of  a  few  hours ; 
and  we  may  get  at  the  date  in  that  way.  The 
attempt  is  at  least  worth  making ;  and  to-mor- 
row I  am  determined  it  shall  be  made." 

"And  suppose  it  fails — I  look  at  the  worst 
now,  Walter ;  but  I  will  look  at  the  best  if  dis- 
appointments come  to  try  us.  Sujipose  no  one 
can  help  you  at  Blackwater?" 

"  There  are  two  men  who  can  help  me  in 
London — Sir  Percival  and  the  Count.  Innocent 
people  may  well  forget  the  date — but  they  are 
guilty,  and  they  know  it.  If  I  fail  every  where 
else,  I  mean  to  force  a  confession  out  of  one  or 
both  of  them  on  my  own  terms." 

All  the  woman  flushed  up  in  Marian's  face  as 
I  spoke. 

"Begin  with  the  Count!"  she  whispered, 
eagerly.     "  For  my  sake  begin  with  the  Count." 

"  We  must  begin,  for  Laura's  sake,  where 
there  is  the  best  chance  of  success,"  I  replied. 

The  color  faded  from  her  face  again,  and  she 
shook  her  head  sadly. 

"Yes,"she  said,  "you  are  right — itwasmean 
and  miserable  of  me  to  say  that.  I  try  to  be 
patient,  Walter,  and  succeed  better  now  than  I 
did  in  ha]ipier  times.  But  I  have  a  little  of  my 
old  temper  still  left — and  it  will  get  the  better 
of  me  when  I  think  of  the  Count." 

"  His  turn  will  come,"  I  said.  "  But,  remem- 
ber, there  is  no  weak  place  in  his  life  that  we 
know  of  yet."  I  waited  a  little  to  let  her  re- 
cover her  self-possession,  and  then  spoke  the 
decisive  words:  "Marian!  There  is  a  weak 
place  we  both  know  of  in  Sir  Percival's  life — " 

"You  mean  the  Secret?" 

"Yes,  the  Secret.  It  is  our  only  sure  hold 
on  him.  I  can  force  him  from  his  position  of 
security,  I  can  drag  him  and  his  villainy  into 
the  face  of  day,  by  no  other  means.  AVhatever 
the  Count  may  have  done.  Sir  Percival  has 
consented  to  the  conspiracy  against  Laura  from 
another  motive  besides  the  motive  of  gain.  You 
heard  him  tell  the  Count  that  he  believed  his 
wife  knew  enough  to  ruin  him  ?  You  heard 
him  say  that  he  was  a  lost  man  if  the  secret  of 
Anne  Catherick  was  known  ?" 

"  Yes  !  yes !     I  did." 

"  Well,  Marian,  when  our  other  resources 
have  failed  us  I  mean  to  know  that  secret. 
My  old  superstition  clings  to  me  even  yet.  I 
say  again  the  Woman  in  White  is  a  living  influ- 
ence in  our  three  lives.  The  End  is  appointed; 
the  End  is  drawing  us  on  ;  and  Anne  Catherick, 
dead  in  her  grave,  points  the  way  to  it  still !" 

V. 

The  story  of  my  first  inquiries  in  Hampshire 
is  soon  told. 

My  early  departure  from  London  enabled  me 
to  reach  Mr.  Dawson's  house  in  the  forenoon. 
Our  interview,  so  far  as  the  object  of  my  vis- 
it was  concerned,  led  to  no  satisfactory  result. 


Mr.  Dawson's  books  certainly  showed  when  he 
had  resumed  his  attendance  on  Miss  Halcombe 
at  Blackwater  Park  ;  but  it  was  not  possible  to 
calculate  back  from  this  date  with  any  exact- 
ness, without  such  help  from  Mrs.  Michelson  as 
I  knew  she  was  unable  to  afford.  She  could  not 
say  from  memory  (who,  in  similar  cases,  ever 
can  ?)  how  many  days  had  elapsed  between  the 
renewal  of  the  Doctor's  attendance  on  his  patient 
and  the  previous  departure  of  Lady  Glyde.  She 
was  almost  certain  of  having  mentioned  the  cir- 
cumstance of  the  departure  to  Miss  Halcombe 
on  the  day  after  it  happened ;  but  then  she  was 
no  more  able  to  fix  the  date  of  the  day  on  which 
this  disclosure  took  place  than  to  fix  the  date 
of  the  day  before,  when  Lady  Glyde  had  left  for 
London.  Neither  could  she  calculate,  with  any 
nearer  approach  to  exactness,  the  time  that  had 
passed  from  the  departure  of  her  mistress  to  the 
period  when  the  undated  letter  from  INIadame 
Fosco  arrived.  Lastl}',  as  if  to  complete  the 
series  of  difficulties,  the  Doctor  himself,  having 
been  ill  at  the  time,  had  omitted  to  make  his 
usual  entry  of  the  day  of  the  week  and  month 
when  the  gardener  from  Blackwater  Park  had 
called  on  him  to  deliver  Mrs.  Michelson's  mes- 
sage. 

Hopeless  of  obtaining  assistance  from  Mr. 
Dawson,  I  resolved  to  try  next  if  I  could  es- 
tablish the  date  of  Sir  Percival's  arrival  at 
Knowlesbury.  It  seemed  like  a  fatality  !  When 
I  reached  Knowlesbury  the  inn  was  shut  up. 
and  bills  were  posted  on  the  walls.  The  spec- 
ulation had  been  a  bad  one,  as  I  was  informed, 
ever  since  the  time  of  the  railway.  The  new 
hotel  at  the  station  had  gradually  absorbed  the 
business  ;  and  the  old  inn  (which  we  knew  to  be 
the  inn  at  which  Sir  Percival  had  put  up)  had 
been  closed  about  two  months  since.  The  pro- 
prietor had  left  the  town  •with  all  his  goods  and 
chattels,  and  where  he  had  gone  I  could  not 
positively  ascertain  from  any  one.  The  four 
people  of  whom  I  inquired  gave  me  four  differ- 
ent accounts  of  his  plans  and  projects  when  he 
left  Knowlesbury. 

There  were  still  some  hours  to  spare  before 
the  last  train  left  for  London ;  and  I  drove  back 
again  in  a  fly  from  the  Knowlesbury  station  to 
Blackwater  Park,  with  the  purpose  of  question- 
ing the  gardener  and  the  person  who  kept  the 
lodge.  If  they,  too,  proved  unable  to  assist  me, 
my  resources  for  the  jjresent  were  at  an  end,  and 
I  might  return  to  town. 

I  dismissed  the  fly  a  mile  distant  from  the 
park ;  and,  getting  my  directions  from  the 
driver,  ])roceeded  by  myself  to  the  house.  As  I 
turned  into  the  lane  from  the  high-road  I  saw  a 
man  with  a  carpet-bag  walking  before  me  rap- 
idly, on  the  way  to  the  lodge.  He  was  a  little 
man,  dressed  in  shabby  black,  and  wearing  a 
remarkabl}-  large  hat.  I  set  him  down  (as  well 
as  it  was  possible  to  judge)  for  a  lawyer's  clerk, 
and  stopped  at  once  to  widen  the  distance  be- 
tween us.  He  had  not  heard  me,  and  he  walked 
on  out  of  sight  without  looking  back.  When  I 
passed  througli  tlie  gates  myself,  a  little  while 
afterward,  he  was  not  visible — he  had  evidently 
gone  on  to  the  house. 

There  were  two  women  in  the  lodge.  One  of 
them  was  old ;  the  other  I  knew  at  once,  by 
Marian's  description  of  her,  to  be  Margaret 
Porcher.    I  asked  first  if  Sir  Percival  was  at  the 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


189 


Park ;  and  receiving  a  reply  in  the  negative,  in- 
([uired  next  when  he  had  left  it.  Neither  of  the 
women  could  tell  me  more  than  that  he  had 
gone  away  in  the  summer.  I  could  extract  no- 
thing from  Margaret  Porcher  but  vacant  smiles 
and  shakings  of  the  head.  The  old  woman  was 
a  little  more  intelligent,  and  I  managed  to  lead 
her  into  speaking  of  the  manner  of  SirPercival's 
departure,  and  of  the  alarm  that  it  caused  her. 
She  remembered  her  master  calling  her  out  of 
bed,  and  remembered  his  frightening  her  by 
swearing  ;  but  the  date  at  which  the  occurrence 
happened  was,  as  she  honestly  acknowledged, 
"  quite  beyond  her." 

On  leaving  the  lodge  I  saw  the  gardener  at 
work  not  far  off.  When  I  first  addressed  him 
he  looked  at  me  rather  distrustfully ;  but  on  my 
using  Mrs.  Michelson's  name,  w-ith  a  civil  ref- 
erence to  himself,  he  entered  into  conversation 
readily  enough.  There  is  no  need  to  describe 
what  passed  between  us :  it  ended,  as  all  my 
other  attempts  to  discover  the  date  had  ended. 
The  gardener  knew  that  his  master  had  driven 
away,  at  night,  "  some  time  in  July,  the  last 
fortnight  or  the  last  ten  days  in  the  month" — 
and  knew  no  more. 

While  we  were  speaking  together  I  saw  the 
man  in  black,  with  the  large  hat,  come  out  from 
the  house  and  stand  at  some  little  distance  ob- 
serving us. 

Certain  suspicions  of  his  errand  at  Blackwa- 
ter  Park  had  already  crossed  my  mind.  They 
were  now  increased  by  the  gardener's  inability 
(or  unwillingness)  to  tell  me  who  the  man  was  ; 
and  I  determined  to  clear  the  way  before  me, 


if  possible,  by  speaking  to  him.  The  plainest 
question  I  could  put,  as  a  stranger,  would  be  to 
inquire  if  the  house  was  allowed  to  be  shown  to 
visitors.  I  walked  up  to  the  man  at  once,  and 
accosted  him  in  those  words. 

His  look  and  manner  unmistakably  betrayed 
that  he  knew  who  I  was,  and  that  he  Avanted  to 
irritate  me  into  quarreling  with  him.  His  reply 
was  insolent  enough  to  have  answered  the  pur- 
pose, if  I  had  been  less  determined  to  control 
myself.  As  it  was,  I  met  him  with  the  most  res- 
olute politeness ;  apologized  for  my  involuntary 
intrusion  (which  he  called  a  "trespass"),  and 
left  the  grounds.  It  was  exactly  as  I  suspected. 
The  recognition  of  me,  w-hen  I  left  Mr.  Kyrle's 
office,  had  been  evidently  communicated  to  Sir 
Percival  Glyde,  and  the  man  in  black  had  been 
sent  to  the  Park,  in  anticipation  of  my  making 
inquiries  at  the  house  or  in  the  neighborhood. 
If  I  had  given  him  the  least  chance  of  lodging 
any  sort  of  legal  comjilaint  against  me,  the  in- 
terference of  the  local  magistrate  would  no 
doubt  have  been  turned  to  account  as  a  clog  on 
my  proceedings,  and  a  means  of  sepai-ating  me 
from  Marian  and  Laura  for  some  daj-s  at  least. 
I  was  prepared  to  be  watched  on  my  way  fiom 
Blackwater  Park  to  the  station,  exactly  as  I  had 
been  watched  in  London  the  day  before.  But 
I  could  not  discover  at  the  time,  and  I  have 
never  found  out  since,  whether  I  was  really  fol- 
lowed on  this  occasion  or  hot.  The  man  in  black 
might  have  had  means  of  tracking  me  at  his  dis- 
posal of  which  I  was  not  aware ;  but  I  certainly 
saw  nothing  of  him,  in  his  own  person,  either 
on  the  way  to  the  station,  or  afterward  on  my 
arrival  at  the  London  terminus  in  the  evening. 
I  reached  home  on  foot,  taking  the  precaution, 
before  I  approached  our  ow-n  door,  of  walking 
round  by  the  loneliest  street  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, and  there  stopping  and  looking  back  more 
than  once  over  the  open  space  behind  me.  I 
had  first  learned  to  use  this  stratagem  against 
suspected  treachery  in  the  wilds  of  Central 
America;  and  now  I  was  practicing  it  again, 
with  the  same  purpose  and  with  even  greater 
caution,  in  the  heart  of  civilized  London  ! 

Nothing  had  happened  to  alarm  ]\L\rian  dur- 
ing my  alasence.  She  asked  eagerly  what  suc- 
cess I  had  met  with.  When  I  told  her,  she 
could  not  conceal  her  surprise  at  the  indiffer- 
ence with  which  I  spoke  of  the  failure  of  my  in- 
vestigations thus  far. 

The  truth  was  that  the  ill  success  of  my  in- 
quiries had  in  no  sense  daunted  me.  I  had  pur- 
sued them  as  a  matter  of  duty,  and  I  had  ex- 
pected nothing  from  them.  In  the  state  of  my 
mind  at  that  time  it  was  almost  a  relief  to  me 
to  know  that  the  struggle  was  now  narrowed  to 
a  trial  of  strength  between  myself  and  Sir  Per- 
cival Glyde.  The  vindictive  motive  had  min- 
gled itself  all  along  with  my  other  and  better 
motives  ;  and  I  confess  it  was  a  satisfaction  to 
me  to  feel  that  the  surest  way — the  only  way 
left  —  of  serving  Laura's  cause  was  to  fasten 
my  hold  firmly  on  the  villain  who  had  married 
hei\  I  acknowledge  that  I  was  not  strong 
enough  to  keep  my  motives  above  the  reach  of 
this  instinct  of  revenge.  But  I  can  honestly  say 
that  no  base  speculation  on  the  future  relations 
of  Laura  and  myself,  and  on  the  private  and 
personal  concessions  which  I  might  force  from 
Sir  Percival  if  I  once  had  him  at  my  mercy, 


190 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


ever  entered  my  mind.  I  never  said  to  myself, 
"If  I  do  succeed,  it  shall  be  one  result  of  my 
success  that  I  put  it  out  of  her  husband's  power 
to  take  her  from  me  again."  I  could  not  look 
at  her  and  think  of  the  future  with  such  thoughts 
as  those.  The  sad  sight  of  the  change  in  her 
from  her  former  self  made  the  one  interest  of 
my  love  an  interest  of  tenderness  and  compas- 
sion, which  her  father  or  her  brother  might  have 
felt,  and  which  I  felt,  God  knows,  in  my  inmost 
heart.  All  my  hopes  looked  no  farther  on  now 
than  to  the  day  of  her  recovery.  There,  till 
she  was  strong  again  and  happy  again — there, 
till  she  could  look  at  me  as  she  had  once  looked, 
and  speak  to  me  as  she  had  once  s])oken — the 
future  of  my  happiest  thoughts  and  my  dearest 
wishes  ended. 

These  words  are  written  under  no  prompting 
of  idle  self-contemplation.  Passages  in  this  nar- 
rative are  soon  to  come  which  will  set  the  minds 
of  others  in  judgment  on  my  conduct.  It  is  right 
that  the  best  and  the  worst  of  me  should  be  fair- 
ly balanced  before  that  time. 

On  the  morning  after  my  return  from  Hamp- 
shire I  took  Marian  up  stairs  into  mj^  working- 
room,  and  there  laid  before  her  the  plan  that  I 
had  matured  thus  far  for  mastering  the  one  as- 
sailable point  in  the  life  of  Sir  Percival  Glyde. 

The  way  to  the  Secret  lay  through  the  mys- 
tery, hitherto  impenetrable  to  all  of  us,  of  the 
Woman  in  White.  The  approach  to  that,  in 
its  turn,  might  be  gained  by  obtaining  tlie  as- 
sistance of  Anne  Catherick's  mother;  and  the 
only  ascertainable  means  of  prevailing  on  Mrs. 
Catherick  to  act  or  to  speak  in  the  matter  de- 
pended on  the  chance  of  my  discovering  local 
particulars  and  family  particulars,  first  of  all, 
from  Mrs.  Clements.  I  had  thought  the  sub- 
ject over  carefully,  and  I  felt  certain  that  the 
new  inquiries  could  only  begin,  to  any  purpose, 
by  my  placing  myself  in  communication  with  the 
faithful  friend  and  protectress  of  Anne  Cather- 
ick. 

The  first  difficulty,  then,  was  to  find  Mrs. 
Clements. 

I  was  indebted  to  Marian's  quick  perception 
for  meeting  this  necessity  at  once  by  the  best 
and  simplest  means.  She  pi'oposed  to  write  to 
the  farm  near  Limmeridge  (Todd's  Corner),  to 
inquire  whether  Mrs.  Clements  had  communi- 
cated with  Mrs.  Todd  during  the  past  few 
months.  How  Mrs.  Clements  had  been  sepa- 
rated from  Anne  it  was  impossible  for  us  to 
say ;  but  that  separation  once  effected,  it  would 
certainly  occur  to  Mrs.  Clements  to  inquire  aft- 
er the  missing  woman  in  the  neighborhood  of 
all  others  to  which  slie  was  known  to  l)e  most 
attached — the  neighborhood  of  Limmeridge.  I 
saw  directly  tliat  Marian's  proposal  offered  us  a 
prospect  of  success,  and  she  wrote  to  Mrs.  Todd 
accordingly  by  that  day's  post. 

While  we  were  waiting  for  the  reply  I  made 
myself  master  of  all  the  information  Marian 
could  afford  on  the  subject  of  Sir  Percival's  fam- 
ily, and  of  his  early  life.  She  could  only  speak 
on  these  topics  from  hearsay,  but  she  was  rea- 
sonably certain  of  the  truth  of  what  little  she 
had  to  tell. 

Sir  Percival  was  an  only  child.  His  father, 
Sir  Felix  Glyde,  had  suffered,  from  his  birth, 
nnder  a  painful  and  incurable  deformity,  and 


had  shunned  all  society  from  his  earliest  years. 
His  sole  happiness  was  in  the  enjoyment  of 
music ;  and  he  had  married  a  lady  with  tastes 
similar  to  his  own,  who  was  said  to  be  a  most 
accomplished  musician.  He  inherited  the 
Blackwater  property  while  still  a  young  man. 
Neither  he  nor  his  wife,  after  taking  possession, 
made  advances  of  any  sort  toward  the  society 
of  the  neighborhood,  and  no  one  endeavored  to 
tempt  them  into  abandoning  their  reserve,  with 
the  one  disastrous  exception  of  the  rector  of  the 
parish. 

The  rector  was  the  worst  of  all  innocent  mis- 
chief-makers— an  over-zealous  man.  He  had 
heard  that  Sir  Felix  had  left  College  with  the 
character  of  being  little  better  than  a  revolu- 
tionist in  politics  and  an  infidel  in  religion  ;  and 
he  arrived  conscientiously  at  the  conclusion  that 
it  was  his  bounden  duty  to  summon  the  lord  of 
the  manor  to  hear  sound  views  enunciated  in 
the  parish  church.  Sir  Felix  fiercely  resented 
the  clergyman's  well-meant  but  ill-directed  in- 
terference, insulting  him  so  grossly  and  so  pub- 
licly that  the  families  in  the  neighborhood  sent 
letters  of  indignant  remonstrance  to  the  Park ; 
and  even  the  tenants  on  the  Blackwater  prop- 
erty expressed  their  opinion  as  strongly  as  they 
dared.  The  baronet,  who  had  no  country  tastes 
of  any  kind,  and  no  attachment  to  the  estate  or 
to  any  one  living  on  it,  declared  that  society  at 
Blackwater  should  never  have  a  second  chance 
of  annoying  him,  and  left  the  place  from  that 
moment.  After  a  short  residence  in  London 
he  and  his  wife  departed  for  the  Continent, 
and  never  returned  to  England  again.  They 
lived  part  of  the  time  in  France  and.  part  in 
Germany  —  always  keeping  themselves  in  the 
strict  retirement  which  the  morbid  sense  of  hif 
own  personal  deformity  had  made  a  necessity 
to  Sir  Felix.  Their  son,  Percival,  had  been 
born  abroad,  and  had  been  educated  there  by 
private  tutors.  His  mother  was  the  first  of  his 
parents  whom  he  lost.  His  father  had  died  a 
few  years  after  her,  either  in  1829  or  1830.  Sir 
Percival  had  been  in  England,  as  a  young  man, 
once  or  twice  before  that  period ;  but  his  ac- 
quaintance with  the  late  Mr.  Fairlie  did  not  be- 
gin till  after  the  time  of  his  father's  death.  They 
soon  became  very  intimate,  although  Sir  Perci- 
val was  seldom,  or  never,  at  Limmeridge  House 
in  those  days.  Mr.  Frederick  Fairlie  might  have 
met  him  once  or  twice  in  Mr.  Philip  Fairlie's 
company,  but  he  could  have  known  little  of  him 
at  that  or  any  other  time.  Sir  Percival's  only 
intimate  friend  in  the  Fairlie  family  had  been 
Laura's  father. 

These  were  all  the  particulars  that  I  could 
gain  from  INLarian.  They  suggested  nothing 
which  was  useful  to  my  ])rcsent  purpose ;  but 
I  noted  them  down  carefully,  in  the  event  of 
their  proving  to  be  of  importance  at  any  future 
period. 

Mrs.  Todd's  reply  (addressed,  by  oin-  own 
wish,  to  a  ])ost-olHce  at  some  distance  from  us) 
had  arrived  at  its  destination  when  I  went  to 
apply  for  it.  The  chances,  wliich  had  been  all 
against  us  hitherto,  turned,  from  this  moment, 
in  our  favor.  Mrs.  Todd's  letter  contained  the 
first  item  of  information  of  which  we  were  in 
search. 

Mrs.  Clements,  it  appeared,  had  (as  we  had 
conjectured)  written  to  Todd's  Corner,  asking 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


191 


pardon,  in  the  first  place,  for  the  abrujit  manner 
in  wliich  she  and  Anne  had  left  their  friends  at 
the  farm-house  (on  the  morning  after  I  had  met 
the  Woman  in  Wliite  in  Liinmeridge  church- 
yard) ;  and  then  informing  Mrs.  Todd  of  Anne's 
disappearance,  and  entreating  that  slie  would 
cause  inquiries  to  be  made  in  tlie  neighborliood, 
on  the  chance  that  the  lost  woman  might  have 
strayed  liack  to  Limmcridge.  In  making  tliis 
request  Mrs.  Clements  had  been  careful  to  add 
to  it  the  address  at  whicli  she  miglit  always  be 
heard  of,  and  that  address  ]\Irs.  Todd  now 
ti-ausmittcd  to  Marian.  It  was  in  London,  and 
within  half  an  hour's  walk  of  our  own  lodging. 

In  the  words  of  the  proverb,  I  was  resolved 
not  to  let  the  grass  grow  under  my  feet.  The 
next  morning  I  set  forth  to  seek  an  interview 
with  Mrs.  Clements.  This  was  my  first  step 
forward  in  the  investigation.  The  story  of  the 
desperate  attempt  to  which  I  now  stood  com- 
mitted begins  here. 

vr. 

The  address  communicated  by  Mrs.  Todd 
took  mc  to  a  lodging-house  situated  in  a  respect- 
able street  near  the  Gray's  Inn  Koad. 

When  I  knocked  the  door  was  opened  by  Mrs. 
Clements  herself  She  did  not  a]ipear  to  re- 
member me,  and  asked  what  my  business  was. 
I  recalled  to  her  our  meeting  in  Limmeridge 
church-yard,  at  the  close  of  my  interview  there 
with  the  Woman  in  White,  taking  special  care 
to  remind  her  that  I  was  the  person  who  assisted 
Anne  Catherick  (as  Anne  had  herself  declared) 
to  escape  the  pursuit  from  the  Asylum.  This 
was  my  only  claim  to  the  confidence  of  Mrs. 
Clements.  She  remembered  the  circumstance 
the  moment  I  spoke  of  it,  and  asked  me  into 
the  parlor  in  the  greatest  anxiety  to  know  if  I 
had  brought  her  any  news  of  Anne. 

It  was  impossible  for  me  to  tell  her  the  whole 
truth  without  at  the  same  time  entering  into 
particulars  on  the  subject  of  the  conspiracy, 
which  it  would  have  been  dangerous  to  confide 
to  a  stranger.  I  could  only  abstain  most  care- 
fully from  raising  any  false  hopes,  and  then  ex- 
plain that  the  object  of  my  visit  was  to  discover 
the  persons  who  were  really  responsible  for 
Anne's  disappearance.  I  even  added,  so  as  to 
exonerate  myself  from  any  after-reproach  of  my 
own  conscience,  that  I  entertained  not  the  least 
hope  of  being  able  to  trace  her;  that  I  believed 
we  should  never  see  her  alive  again ;  and  that 
my  main  interest  in  the  affair  was  to  bring  to 
punishment  two  men  whom  I  suspected  to  be 
concerned  in  luring  her  away,  and  at  whose 
hands  I  and  some  dear  friends  of  mine  had  suf- 
fered a  grievous  wrong.  Witli  this  explanation 
I  left  it  to  Mrs.  Clements  to  say  whether  our 
interest  in  the  matter  (whatever  difference  there 
might  be  in  the  motives  which  actuated  us)  was 
not  the  same ;  and  whether  she  felt  any  reluct- 
ance to  forward  my  object  by  giving  me  such 
information  on  the  subject  of  my  inquiries  as 
she  happened  to  possess. 

The  poor  woman  was  at  first  too  much  con- 
fused and  agitated  to  imderstand  thoroughly 
what  I  said  to  her.  She  could  only  rejily  that  I 
was  welcome  to  any  thing  she  could  tell  nie  in 
return  for  the  kindness  I  had  shown  to  Anne. 
But  as  she  was  not  very  quick  and  ready,  at  the 
best  of  times,  in  talking  to  strangers,  she  would 


beg  me  to  put  her  in  the  right  way,  and  to  say 
v/hcre  I  wished  her  to  begin.  Knowing  by  ex- 
perience that  the  jjlaincst  narrative  attainable 
from  persons  who  are  not  accustomed  to  arrange 
their  ideas  is  the  narrative  which  goes  far 
enough  back  at  the  beginning  to  avoid  all  im- 
pediments of  retrospection  in  its  course,  I  asked 
Mrs.  Clements  to  tell  me  first  what  had  happened 
after  she  had  left  Limmeridge;  and  so,  by- 
watchful  cpiestioning,  carried  her  on  from  point 
to  point  till  we  reached  the  period  of  Anne's 
disappearance. 

The  substance  of  the  information  wbich  I  thus 
obtained  was  as  follows : 

On  leaving  the  farm  at  Todd's  Corner  Mrs. 
Clements  and  Anne  had  traveled  that  day  as 
far  as  Derby,  and  had  remained  there  a  week 
on  Anne's  account.  They  had  then  gone  on  to 
London,  and  had  lived  in  the  lodging  occupied 
by  Mrs.  Clements  at  that  time  for  a  month  or 
more,  when  circumstances  connected  with  the 
house  and  the  landlord  had  obliged  them  to 
change  their  quarters.  Anne's  terror  of  being 
discovered  in  London  or  its  neighborhood,  when- 
ever they  ventured  to  walk  out,  had  gradually 
communicated  itself  to  Mrs.  Clements,  and  she 
had  determined  on  removing  to  one  of  the  most 
out-of-the-way  places  in  England,  to  the  town 
of  Grimsby  in  Lincolnshire,  where  her  deceased 
husband  had  passed  all  his  early  life.  His  rela- 
tives were  respectable  people  settled  in  the  town  ; 
they  had  always  treated  Mrs.  Clements  with 
great  kindness ;  and  she  thought  it  impossible 
to  do  better  than  go  there  and  take  the  advice 
of  her  husband's  friends.  Anne  would  not  hear 
of  returning  to  her  mother  at  Welmingham,  be- 
cause she  had  been  removed  to  the  Asylum  from 
that  place,  and  because  Sir  Percival  would  be 
certain  to  go  back  there  and  find  her  again. 
There  was  serious  weight  in  this  objection,  and 
Mrs.  Clements  felt  that  it  was  not  to  be  easily 
removed. 

At  Grimsby  the  first  serious  symptoms  of  ill- 
ness had  shown  themselves  in  Anne.  They  ap- 
peared soon  after  the  news  of  Lady  Clyde's 
marriage  had  been  made  public  in  the  news- 
papers, and  had  reached  her  through  that  me- 
dium. 

The  medical  man  who  was  sent  for  to  attend 
the  sick  woman  discovered  at  once  that  she  was 
suffering  from  a  serious  affection  of  the  heart. 
The  illness  lasted  long,  left  her  very  weak,  and 
returned  at  intervals,  though  with  mitigated  se- 
verity, again  and  again.  They  remained  at 
Grimsby  in  consequence  all  through  the  first 
half  of  the  new  year;  and  there  they  might  prob- 
ably have  staid  much  longer  but  for  the  sudden 
resolution  which  Anne  took  at  this  time  to  ven- 
ture back  to  Hampshire  for  the  purpose  of  ob- 
taining a  private  interview  with  Lady  Clyde. 

Mrs.  Clements  did  all  in  her  power  to  oppose 
the  execution  of  this  hazardous  and  unaccount- 
able project.  No  explanation  of  her  motives 
was  offered  by  Anne,  except  that  she  believed 
the  day  of  her  death  was  not  far  oft",  and  that 
she  had  something  on  her  mind  which  must  be 
communicated  to  Lady  Glyde,  at  any  risk,  in 
secret.  Her  resolution  to  accomplish  this  pur- 
pose was  so  firmly  settled  that  she  declared  her 
intention  of  going  to  Hampshire  by  herself  if 
INIrs.  Clements  felt  any  unwillingness  to  go  with 
her.     The  doctor,  on  being  consulted,  was  of 


102 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


opinion  that  serious  opposition  to  her  wishes 
would,  in  all  probability,  produce  another  and 
]ierhaps  a  fatal  fit  of  illness ;  and  Mrs.  Clements, 
under  this  advice,  yielded  to  necessity,  and  once 
more,  with  sad  forebodings  of  trouble  and  dan- 
f:;er  to  come,  allowed  Anne  Catherick  to  have 
her  own  way. 

On  the  journey  from  London  to  Hampshire 
Mrs.  Clements  discovered  that  one  of  their  fel- 
low-passengers was  well  acquainted  with  the 
neighborhood  of  Blackwater,  and  could  give 
her  all  the  information  she  needed  on  the  sub- 
ject of  localities.  In  this  way  she  found  out 
that  the  only  place  they  could  go  to  which  was 
not  dangerously  near  to  Sir  Percival's  residence 
was  a  large  village  called  Sandon.  The  dis- 
tance here  from  Blackwater  Park  was  between 
three  and  four  miles ;  and  that  distance  and 
back  again  Anne  had  walked  on  each  occasion 
when  she  had  ajjpeared  in  the  neighborhood  of 
the  lake. 

For  the  few  days  during  which  they  were  at 
Sandon  without  being  discovered  they  had 
lived  a  little  away  from  the  village,  in  the  cot- 
tage of  a  decent  widow  woman  who  had  a  bed- 
room to  let,  and  whose  discreet  silence  Mrs. 
Clements  had  done  her  best  to  secure  for  the 
first  week  at  least.  She  had  also  tried  hard  to 
induce  Anne  to  be  content  with  writing  to  Lady 
Glyde  in  the  first  instance.  But  the  failure  of 
the  warning  contained  in  the  anonymous  letter 
sent  to  Limraeridge  had  made  Anne  resolute  to 
speak  this  time,  and  obstinate  in  the  determina- 
tion to  go  on  her  errand  alone. 

Mrs.  Clements  nevertheless  followed  her  pri- 
vately on  each  occasion  when  she  went  to  the 
lake,  without,  however,  venturing  near  enough 
to  the  boat-house  to  be  witness  of  what  took 
place  there.  When  Anne  returned  for  the  last 
time  from  the  dangerous  neigliborhood,  the  fa- 
tigue of  walking,  day  after  day,  distances  which 
were  far  too  great  for  her  strength,  added  to  the 
exhausting  eft'ect  of  the  agitation  from  which 
she  had  suffered,  produced  the  result  which  Mrs. 
Clements  had  dreaded  all  along.  The  old  pain 
over,  the  heart  and  the  other  symptoms  of  the 
illness  at  Grimsby  returned,  and  Anne  was  con- 
fined to  her  bed  in  the  cottage. 

In  this  emergency  tlie  first  necessity,  as  Mrs. 
Clements  knew  by  experience,  was  to  endeavor 
to  quiet  Anne's  anxiety  of  mind;  and  for  this 
purpose  the  good  woman  went  herself  the  next 
day  to  the  lake  to  try  if  she  could  find  Lady 
Glyde  (who  would  be  sure,  as  Anne  said,  to  take 
her  daily  walk  to  the  boat-house),  and  prevail 
on  her  to  come  back  privately  to  the  cottage 
near  Sandon.  On  reaching  the  outskirts  of  the 
plantation  Mrs.  Clements  encountered  not  Lady 
Glyde,  but  a  tall,  stout,  elderly  gentleman  with 
a  book  in  his  hand — in  other  words.  Count  Fos- 
i:o. 

The  Count,  after  looking  at  her  very  atten- 
tively for  a  moment,  asked  if  she  expected  to 
see  any  one  in  that  place ;  and  added,  before 
she  could  reply,  that  he  was  waiting  there  with 
a  message  from  Lady  Glyde,  but  that  he  was  not 
quite  certain  whether  the  person  then  before 
him  answered  the  description  of  the  person  with 
whom  he  was  desired  to  communicate.  Upon 
this  Mrs.  Clements  at  once  conlidcd  her  errand 
to  him,  and  entreated  that  he  would  hel])  to  al- 
lay Anne's  anxiety  by  trusting  his  message  to 


her.  The  Count  most  readily  and  kindly  com- 
plied with  her  request.  The  message,  he  said, 
was  a  most  important  one.  Lady  Glyde  entreat- 
ed Anne  and  her  good  friend  to  return  imme- 
diately to  London,  as  she  felt  certain  that  Sir 
Percival  would  discover  them  if  they  remained 
any  longer  in  the  neighborhood  of  Blackwater. 
She  was  herself  going  to  London  in  a  short 
time,  and  if  Mrs.  Clements  and  Anne  would  go 
there  first,  and  would  let  her  know  what  their 
address  was,  they  should  hear  from  her  and  see 
her  in  a  fortnight  or  less.  The  Count  added 
that  he  had  already  attempted  to  give  a  friend- 
ly warning  to  Anne  herself,  but  that  she  had 
been  too  much  startled  by  seeing  that  he  was  a 
stranger  to  let  him  approach  and  speak  to  her. 

To  this  Mrs.  Clements  replied  in  the  great- 
est alarm  and  distress,  that  she  asked  nothing 
better  than  to  take  Anne  safely  to  London ;  but 
that  there  was  no  present  hope  of  removing  her 
from  the  dangerous  neighborhood,  as  she  lay  ill 
in  her  bed  at  that  moment.  The  Count  inquired 
if  Mrs.  Clements  had  sent  for  medical  advice  ; 
and  hearing  that  she  had  hitherto  hesitated  to 
do  so,  from  the  fear  of  making  their  position 
publicly  known  in  the  village,  informed  her  that 
lie  was  himself  a  medical  man,  and  that  he  would 
go  back  with  her,  if  she  pleased,  and  see  what 
could  be  done  for  Anne.  Mrs.  Clements  (feel- 
ing a  natural  confidence  in  the  Count,  as  a  per- 
son trusted  with  a  secret  message  from  Lady 
Glyde)  gratefully  accepted  the  ofter,  and  they 
went  back  together  to  the  cottage. 

Anne  was  asleep  when  they  got  there.  The 
Count  started  at  the  sight  of  her  (evidently  from 
astonishment  at  her  resemblance  to  Lady  Glyde). 
Poor  Mrs.  Clements  supposed  that  he  v,-as  only 
shocked  to  see  how  ill  she  was.  He  would  not 
allow  her  to  be  awakened ;  he  was  contented 
with  putting  questions  to  Mrs.  Clements  about 
her  symptoms,  Avitli  looking  at  her,  and  with 
lightly  touching  her  pulse.  Sandon  was  a  large 
enough  place  to  have  a  grocer's  and  druggist's 
shop  in  it ;  and  thither  the  Count  went  to  write 
his  prescription  and  to  get  the  medicine  made 
up.  He  brought  it  back  himself,  and  told  Mrs.' 
Clements  that  the  medicine  was  a  powerful 
stimulant,  and  that  it  would  certainly  give  Anne 
strength  to  get  up  and  bear  the  fatigue  of  a 
journey  to  London  of  only  a  few  hours.  The 
remedy  was  to  be  administered  at  stated  times, 
on  that  day  and  on  the  day  after.  On  the 
tliird  day  she  would  be  well  enough  to  travel ; 
and  he  arranged  to  meet  Mrs.  Clements  at  the 
Blackwater  station,  and  to  see  them  off  by  the 
mid-day  train.  If  they  did  not  appear  he  Avould 
assume"  that  Anne  was  worse,  and  would  proceed 
at  once  to  the  cottage. 

As  events  turned  out,  however,  no  such  emer- 
gency as  this  occurred.  The  medicine  had  an 
extraordinary  eft'ect  on  Anne,  and  tlie  good  re- 
sults of  it  were  helped  by  the  assurance  Mrs. 
Clements  could  now  give  her  that  she  would 
soon  see  Lady  Glyde  in  London.  At  the  ap- 
])ointed  day  and  time  (wlien  they  had  not  been 
(piite  so  long  as  a  week  in  Ilamjishire  alto- 
gether) they  arrived  at  the  station.  The  Count 
M'as  waiting  there  for  them,  and  was  talking  to 
an  elderly  lady,  who  ap])eared  to  be  going  to 
travel  by  the  train  to  London  also.  He  most 
kindly  assisted  them,  and  jnit  them  into  the 
carriage  himself,  begging  Mrs.  Clements  not  to 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


193 


irv^^'  ''^^M^^'^ 


COUNT   FOSCO   AND    MUS.   CLEMENTS. 


forget  to  send  her  address  to  Lady  Glyde.  The 
elderly  lady  did  not  travel  in  the  same  compart- 
ment, and  they  did  not  notice  what  became  of 
her  on  reaching  the  London  terminus.  Mrs. 
Clements  secured  respectable  lodgings  in  a  quiet 
neighborhood,  and  then  wrote,  as  she  had  en- 
gaged to  do,  to  inform  Lady  Glyde  of  the  ad- 
dress. 

A  little  more  than  a  fortnight  passed,  and  no 
answer  came. 

At  the  end  of  that  time  a  lady  (the  same  eld- 
erly lady  whom  they  had  seen  at  the  station) 
called  in  a  cab,  and  said  that  she  came  from 
Lady  Glyde,  who  was  then  at  a  hotel  in  Lon- 
don, and  who  wished  to  see  Mrs.  Clements  for 
the  pui-pose  of  arranging  a  future  interview  with 
Anne.  Mrs.  Clements  expressed  her  willing- 
ness (Anne  being  present  at  the  time,  and  en- 
treated her  to  do  so)  to  forward  the  object  in 
view,  especially  as  she  was  not  required  to  be 
away  from  the  house  for  more  than  half  an  hour 
at  the  most.  She  and  the  elderly  lady  (clearly 
Madame  Fosco)  then  left  in  the  cab.  The  lady 
stopped  the  cab,  after  it  had  driven  some  dis- 
tance, at  a  shop,  before  they  got  to  the  hotel, 
and  begged  Mrs.  Clements  to  wait  for  her  for 
a  few  minutes  while  she  made  a  purchase  that 
had  been  forgotten.  Slie  never  appeared  again. 
N 


After  waiting  some  time  Mrs.  Clements  be-* 
came  alarmed,  and  ordered  the  cabman  to  drive 
back  to  her  lodgings.      When  she  got  there, 
after  an  absence  of  rather  more  than  half  an 
hour,  Anne  was  gone. 

The  only  information  to  be  obtained  from  the 
people  of  the  house  was  derived  from  the  serv- 
ant who  waited  on  the  lodgers.  She  had  opened 
the  door  to  a  boy  from  the  street,  who  had  left 
a  letter  for  "  the  young  woman  who  lived  on  the 
second  flooi'"  (the  ])art  of  the  house  which  Mrs. 
Clements  occupied).  The  servant  had  delivered 
the  letter,  had  then  gone  down  stairs,  and  five 
minutes  afterward  had  observed  Anne  open  the 
front  door  and  go  out,  dressed  in  her  bonnet 
and  shawl.  She  had  probably  taken  the  letter 
with  her,  for  it  was  not  to  be  found,  and  it  was 
therefore  impossible  to  tell  what  inducement  had 
been  oftered  to  make  her  leave  the  house.  It 
must  have  been  a  strong  one,  for  she  would 
never  stir  out  alone  in  London  of  her  own  ac- 
cord. If  Mrs.  Clements  had  not  known  this  by 
experience,  nothing  would  have  induced  her  to 
go  away  in  the  cab,  even  for  so  short  a  time  as 
half  an  hour  only. 

As  soon  as  she  could  collect  her  thoughts  the 
first  idea  that  naturally  occurred  to  Mrs.  Clem- 
ents was  to  go  and  make  inquiries  at  the  Asy- 


19i 


THE  WOJIAN  IN  WHITE. 


lum,  to  which  she  di'eaded  that  Anne  had  been 
taken  back. 

She  went  there  the  next  day — having  been 
informed  of  the  locality  in  which  the  house  was 
situated  by  Anne  herself.  The  answer  she  re- 
ceived (her  application  having,  in  all  probability, 
been  made  a  day  or  two  before  the  false  Anne 
Catherick  had  really  been  consigned  to  safe 
keeping  in  the  Asylum)  was,  that  no  such  ])er- 
son  had  been  brought  back  there.  She  had  then 
written  to  Mrs.  Catherick  at  Welmingham,  to 
know  if  she  had  seen  or  heard  any  thing  of  lier 
daughter,  and  had  received  an  answer  in  the 
negative.  After  that  reply  had  reached  her 
she  was  at  the  end  of  her  resources,  and  per- 
fectly ignorant  where  else  to  inquire  or  what 
else  to  do.  From  that  time  to  this  she  had  re- 
mained in  total  ignorance  of  tiie  cause  of  Anne's 
disappearance,  and  of  the  end  of  Anne's  story. 

Thus  far  the  information  which  I  had  re- 
ceived from  Mrs.  Clements — though  it  estab- 
lished facts  of  which  I  had  not  previously  been 
aware — was  of  a  preliminary  character  only.  It 
was  clear  that  the  series  of  deceptions  whiclf  had 
removed  Anne  Catherick  to  London  and  sepa- 
rated her  from  Mrs.  Clements  had  been  accom- 
plished solely  by  Count  Fosco  and  the  Countess ; 
and  the  question  whether  any  part  of  the  con- 
duct of  husband  or  wife  had  been  of  a  kind  to 
place  either  of  them  within  reach  of  the  law 
might  be  well  worthy  of  future  consideration. 
But  the  purpose  I  had  now  in  view  led  me  in 
another  direction  than  this.  The  immediate 
object  of  my  visit  to  Mrs.  Clements  was  to  make 
some  approach  at  least  to  the  discovery  of  Sir 
Percival's  secret,  and  she  had  said  nothing  as 
yet  which  advanced  me  on  my  way  to  that  im- 
portant end.  I  felt  the  necessity  of  trying  to 
awaken  her  recollections  of  other  times,  persons, 
and  events,  than  tliose  on  which  her  memory 
had  hitherto  been  employed ;  and  when  I  next 
spoke,  I  spoke  with  that  object  indirectly  in 
view. 

"  I  wish  I  could  be  of  any  help  to  you  in  this 
'  sad  calamity,"  I  said.  "  All  I  can  do  is  to  feel 
heartily  for  your  distress.  If  Anne  had  been 
your  own  child,  Mrs.  Clements,  you  could  have 
shown  her  no  truer  kindness — you  could  have 
made  no  readier  sacrifices  for  her  sake." 

"There's  no  great  merit  in  that.  Sir,"  said 
Mrs.  Clements,  simply.  "The  poor  thing  was 
as  good  as  my  own  child  to  me.  I  nursed  her 
from  a  baby.  Sir,  bringing  her  up  by  hand ;  and 
a  hard  job  it  was  to  rear  her.  It  wouldn't  go  to 
my  heart  so  to  lose  her  if  I  hadn't  made  her 
first  short-clothes,  and  taught  her  to  walk.  I 
always  said  she  was  sent  to  console  me  for  nev- 
er having  chick  or  child  of  my  own.  And  now 
she's  lost,  the  old  times  keep  coming  back  to 
my  mind ;  and,  even  at  my  age,  I  can't  helj) 
crying  about  her — I  can't,  indeed.  Sir !" 

I  waited  a  little  to  give  Mrs.  Clements  time 
to  compose  herself.  Was  the  light  that  I  had 
been  looking  for  so  long  now  glimmering  on 
me — far  off,  as  yet — in  the  good  woman's  recol- 
lections of  Anne's  early  life  ? 

"Did  you  know  Mrs.  Catherick  before  Anne 
was  born?"  I  asked. 

"  Not  very  long,  Sir — not  above  four  months. 
We  saw  a  great  deal  of  each  other  in  that  time, 
"but  we  were  never  very  friendly  together." 

Her  voice  was  steadier  as  she  made  that  re- 


ply. Painful  as  many  of  her  recollections  might 
be,  I  observed  that  it  was,  unconsciously,  a  re- 
lief to  her  mind  to  revert  to  the  dimly  seen 
troubles  of  the  past,  after  dwelling  so  long  on 
the  vivid  sorrows  of  the  present. 

"Were  you  and  Mrs.  Catherick  neighbors?" 
I  inquired,  leading  her  memory  on  as  encour- 
agingly as  I  could. 

"Yes,  Sir — neighbors  at  Old  Welmingham." 

"  Old  Welmingham?  There  are  two  places 
of  that  name,  then,  in  Hampshire  ?" 

"Well,  Sir,  there  used  to  be  in  those  days — 
better  than  three-and-twenty  years  ago.  Thej' 
built  a  new  town  about  two  miles  off,  convenient 
to  the  river;  and  Old  Welmingliam,  which  was 
never  much  more  than  a  village,  got  in  time  to 
be  deserted.  The  new  town  is  the  place  they 
call  Welmingham  now;  but  the  old  parish 
church  is  the  parish  church  still.  It  stands  by 
itself,  with  the  houses  pulled  down,  or  gone  to 
ruin,  all  round  it.  I've  lived  to  see  sad  changes. 
It  was  a  pleasant,  pretty  place  in  my  time." 

"  Did  you  live  there  before  your  marriage, 
Mrs.  Clements?" 

"  No,  Sir — I'm  a  Norfolk  woman.  It  wasn't 
the  place  my  husband  belonged  to  either.  He, 
was  from  Grimsby,  as  I  told  you  ;  and  he  served 
his  apprenticeship  there.  But  having  friends 
down  south,  and  hearing  of  an  opening,  he  got 
into  business  at  Southampton.  It  was  in  a, 
small  way,  but  he  made  enough  for  a  plain  man 
to  retire  on,  and  settled  at  Old  Welmingham. 
I  went  there  with  him  when  he  married  me.  We 
were  neither  of  us  young ;  but  we  lived  very 
happy  together  —  happier  than  our  neighbor, 
Mr.  Catherick,  lived  along  with  his  wife  when 
they  came  to  Old  Welmingham,  a  year  or  two 
afterward. " 

"Was  your  husband  acquainted  with  them 
before  that?" 

"  With  Catherick,  Sir  —  not  with  his  wife. 
She  was  a  stranger  to  both  of  us.  Some  gentle- 
men had  made  interest  for  Catherick,  and  he 
got  the  situation  of  clerk  at  Welmingham  Church, 
which  was  the  reason  of  his  coming  to  settle  in 
our  neighborhood.  He  brought  his  newlj'-mar- 
ried  wife  along  with  him ;  and  we  heard,  in 
course  of  time,  she  had  been  lady's-maid  in  a 
great  family  that  lived  at  Varneck  Hall,  near 
Southampton.  Catherick  had  found  it  a  hard 
matter  to  get  her  to  marry  him,  in  consequence 
of  her  holding  herself  uncommonly  high.  He 
had  asked  and  asked,  and  given  the  thing  up  at 
last,  seeing  she  was  so  contrary  about  it.  When 
he  had  given  it  up  slie  turned  contrary,  just  the 
other  way,  and  came  to  him  of  her  own  accord, 
without  rhyme  or  reason,  seemingly.  My  poor 
husband  always  said  that  was  the  time  to  have 
given  her  a  lesson.  But  Catherick  was  too  fond 
of  her  to  do  any  thing  of  the  sort ;  he  never 
checked  her,  either  before  they  were  married  or 
after.  He  was  a  quick  man  in  his  feelings,  let- 
ting them  carry  him  a  deal  too  far — now  in  one 
way,  and  now  in  another — and  he  would  have' 
spoiled  a  better  wife  than  Mrs.  Catherick,  if  a 
better  had  married  him.  I  don't  like  to  S))eak 
ill  of  any  one.  Sir;  but  she  was  a  heartless  wo- 
man, with  a  terrible  will  of  her  own  ;  fond  of 
foolish  admiration  and  fine  clothes,  and  not 
caring  to  show  so  much  as  decent  outward  re- 
spect to  Catherick,  kindly  as  he  always  treated 
her.     My  husband  said  he  thought  things  would 


THE  WOMAN  IN  ^YHITE. 


turn  out  bndly,  when  they  first  came  to  live  near 
us :  and  his  words  proved  true.  Before  they 
had  been  quite  four  months  in  our  neighborhood 
there  was  a  dreadful  scandal  and  a  miserable 
break-up  in  their  household.  Both  of  them  were 
in  fault — I  am  afraid  both  of  them  were  equal- 
ly in  fault." 

"You  mean  both  husband  and  wife?" 

"  Oh  no,  Sir !  I  don't  mean  Catherick — he 
was  only  to  be  pitied.  I  meant  his  wife  and  the 
])erson — " 

"And  the  person  who  caused  the  scandal?" 

"Yes,  Sir.  A  gentleman  born  and  brought 
up,  who  ought  to  have  set  a  better  example. 
You  know  him.  Sir — and  my  poor,  dear  Anne 
knew  him  only  too  well." 

"  Sir  Percival  Glvde  ?" 

"Yes;  Sir  Percival  Clyde." 

My  heart  beat  fast — I  thought  I  had  my  hand 
on  the  clew.  How  little  I  knew  then  of  the 
windings  of  the  labyrinth  which  were  still  to 
mislead  me ! 

"Did  Sir  Percival  live  in  your  neighborhood 
at  that  time?"  I  asked. 

"No,  Sir.  He  came  among  us  as  a  stranger. 
His  father  had  died,  not  long  before,  in  foreign 
parts.  I  remember  he  was  in  mourning.  He 
put  up  at  the  little  inn  on  the  river  (they  have 
pulled  it  down  since  that  time),  where  gentle- 
men used  to  go  to  fish.  He  Avasn't  much  no- 
ticed when  he  first  came ;  it  was  a  common 
thing  enough  for  gentlemen  to  travel  from  all 
parts  of  England  to  fish  in  our  river." 

"  Did  he  make  his  appearance  in  the  village 
before  Anne  was  born  ?" 

"Yes,  Sir.  Anne  was  born  in  the  June 
month  of  eighteen  hundred  and  twenty-seven, 
and  I  think  he  came  at  the  end  of  April,  or  the 
beginning  of  May." 

' '  Came  as  a  stranger  to  all  of  you  ?  A  stran- 
ger to  Mrs.  Catherick  as  well  as  to  the  rest  of 
the  neighbors?" 

"  So  we  thought  at  first.  Sir.  But  when  the 
scandal  broke  out  nobody  believed  they  were 
strangers.  I  remember  how  it  liappened  as  well 
as  if  it  was  yesterday.  Catherick  came  into  our 
garden  one  night  and  woke  us  with  throwing  up 
a  handful  of  gravel  from  the  walk  at  our  ^\in- 
dow.  I  heard  him  beg  my  husband,  for  the 
Lord's  sake,  to  come  down  and  speak  to  him. 
They  were  a  long  time  together  talking  in  the 
porch.  When  my  husband  came  back  up  stairs 
he  was  all  of  a  ti-emble.  He  sat  down  on  the 
side  of  the  bed,  and  he  says  to  me,  '  Lizzie,  I 
alwaj's  told  you  that  woman  was  a  bad  one ;  1 
always  said  she  would  end  ill ;  and  I'm  afraid, 
in  my  own  mind,  that  the  end  has  come  already. 
Catherick  has  found  a  lot  of  lace  handkerchiefs 
and  two  fine  rings  and  a  new  gold  watch  and 
chain  hid  away  in  his  wife's  drawer — things  that 
nobody  but  a  born  lady  ought  ever  to  have — 
and  his  wife  won't  say  how  she  came  by  them.' 
'Does  he  think  she  stole  them?'  says  I.  'No,' 
says  he,  '  stealing  would  be  bad  enough ;  but 
it's  worse  than  that  —  she's  had  no  chance  of 
stealing  such  things  as  those,  and  she's  not  a 
woman  to  take  them  if  she  had-  They're  gifts, 
Lizzie — there's  her  own  initials  engraved  inside 
the  watch — and  Catlierick  has  seen  her  talking 
privately  and  carrying  on  as  no  married  wo- 
man should  with  that  gentleman  in  mourning 
— Sir  Percival  Clyde.     Don't  you  say  any  thir< 


about  it — I've  quieted  Catherick  for  to-night. 
I've  told  him  to  keep  his  tongue  to  himself  and 
his  eyes  and  his  ears  open,  and  to  wait  a  day 
or  two,  till  he  can  be  quite  certain.'  'I  be- 
lieve you  are  both  of  you  wrong, '  says  I.  '  It's 
not  in  nature,  comfortable  and  respectable  as 
she  is  here,  that  Mrs.  Catherick  should  take 
up  with  a  chance  stranger  like  Sir  Percival 
Clyde.'  'Ay,  but  is  he  a  stranger  to  her?'  says 
my  husband.  '  You  forget  how  Catherick's  wife 
came  to  marry  him.  She  went  to  him  of  her 
own  accord,  after  saying  No,  over  and  over 
again,  when  he  asked  her.  There  have  been 
wicked  women  before  her  time,  Lizzie,  who 
have  used  honest  men  who  loved  them  as  a 
means  of  saving  their  characters ;  and  I'm 
sorely  afraid  this  Mrs.  Catherick  is  as  wicked 
as  the  worst  of  them.  We  shall  see,'  says  my 
husband,  'we  shall  soon  see.'  And  only  two 
days  afterward  we  did  see." 

J\Irs.  Clements  waited  for  a  moment  before 
she  went  on.  Even  in  that  moment  I  began  to 
doubt  whether  the  clew  that  I  thought  I  had 
found  was  really  leading  me  to  the  central  mys- 
tery of  the  labyrinth  after  all.  Was  this  com- 
mon, too  common,  story  of  a  man's  treacheiy 
and  a  woman's  frailty  the  key  to  a  secret  which 
had  been  the  life-long  terror  of  Sir  Percival 
Clyde? 

"Well,  Sir,  Catherick  took  my  husband's  ad- 
vice, and  waited,"  Mrs.  Clements  continued. 
"And,  as  I  told  you,  he  hadn't  long  to  wait. 
On  the  second  day  he  found  his  wife  and  Sir 
Percival  whispering  together,  quite  familiar, 
close  under  the  vestry  of  the  church.  I  sup- 
pose they  thought  the  neighborhood  of  the  ves- 
try was  the  last  place  in  the  world  where  any 
body  would  think  of  looking  after  them,  but, 
however  that  may  be,  there  they  were.  Sir 
Percival,  being  seemingly  surprised  and  con- 
founded, defended  himself  in  such  a  guilty  way 
that  poor  Catherick  (whose  quick  temper  I  have 
told  you  of  already)  fell  into  a  kind  of  frenzy  at 
his  own  disgrace,  and  struck  Sir  Percival.  He 
was  no  match  (and  I  am  sorry  to  say  it)  for  the 
man  who  had  wronged  him,  and  he  was  beaten 
in  the  crudest  manner  before  the  neighbors, 
who  had  come  to  the  place  on  hearing  the  dis- 
turbance, could  run  in  to  part  them.  All  this 
happened  toward  evening ;  and  before  nightfall, 
when  my  husband  went  to  Catherick's  house, 
he  was  gone,  nobody  knew  where.  No  living 
soul  in  the  village  ever  saw  him  again.  He 
knew  too  well  by  that  time  what  his  wife's  vile 
reason  had  been  for  marrying  him ;  and  he  felt 
his  misery  and  disgrace — especially  after  what 
had  happened  to  him  with  Sir  Percival — too 
keenly.  The  clergyman  of  the  parish  put  an 
advertisement  in  the  paper,  begging  him  to  come 
back,  and  saying  that  he  should  not  lose  his  sit- 
uation or  his  friends.  But  Catherick  had  too 
much  pride  and  spirit,  as  some  people  said — too 
much  feeling,  as  I  think.  Sir — to  face  his  neigh- 
bors again,  and  try  to  live  down  the  memory  of 
his  disgrace.  My  husband  heard  from  him  when 
he  had  left  England,  and  heard  a  second  time 
when  he  was  settled  and  doing  well  in  America. 
He  is  alive  there  now,  as  far  as  I  know,  but  none 
of  us  in  tlie  old  countrj' — his  wicked  wife  least 
of  all — are  ever  likely  to  set  eyes  on  him  again." 

"What  became  of  Sir  Percival?"  I  inquired. 
"Did  he  stay  in  the  neighborhood?" 


190 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


HE    FELL    INTO   A    KIND    OF   FIIENZY  AT   HIS    OWN   DISGRACE,    AND    STRUCK    SIR   PERCITAL. 


"Not  he,  Sir.  The  place  was  too  hot  to  hold 
him.  lie  was  heard  at  high  words  with  Mrs. 
Catherick  the  same  night  when  the  scandal 
broke  out,  and  the  next  morning  he  took  him- 
self off." 

"  And  Mrs.  Catherick  ?  Surely  she  never  re- 
mained in  the  village  among  the  people  who 
knew  of  her  disgrace?" 

"  Slie  did.  Sir.  She  was  hard  enough  and 
heartless  enough  to  set  the  opinions  of  all  iier 
neighbors  at  flat  defiance.  She  declared  to 
every  body,  from  the  clergyman  downward,  that 
she  Avas  the  victim  of  a  dreadful  mistake,  and 
that  all  the  scandal-mongers  in  the  place  should 
not  drive  her  out  of  it  as  if  she  was  a  guilty  wo- 
man. All  through  my  time  she  lived  at  Old 
Welmingham ;  and  after  my  time,  when  tlie 
new  town  was  building,  and  the  respectable 
neighbors  began  moving  to  it,  she  moved  too,  as 
if  slie  was  determined  to  live  among  them  and 
scandalize  tlicm  to  the  very  last.  There  she  is 
now,  and  tlierc  she  will  sto]),  in  defiance  of  tlie 
best  of  them,  to  her  dying  day." 

"But  how  has  she  lived  tlu'ough  all.  these 
years?"  I  asked.  "Was  her  husl)aud  able  and 
willing  to  help  her?" 

"  Both  able  and  willing,  Sir,"  said  Mrs.  Clem- 
ents.    "  In  the  second  letter  lie  wrote  to  mv 


good  man  he  said  she  had  borne  his  name,  and 
lived  in  his  home,  and,  wicked  as  she  was,  she 
must  not  starve  like  a  beggar  in  the  street.  He 
could  afford  to  make  her  some  small  allowance, 
and  she  might  draw  for  it  quarterly  at  a  place 
in  London." 

"Did  she  accept  the  allowance?" 

"Not  a  farthing  of  it.  Sir.  She  said  she 
would  never  be  beholden  to  Catherick  for  bit  or 
drop  if  she  lived  to  be  a  hundred.  And  she  has 
ke])t  her  word  ever  since.  When  my  poor  dear 
husband  died,  and  left  all  to  me,  Catherick's 
letter  was  put  in  my  possession  with  the  other 
things,  and  I  told  "her  to  let  me  know  if  she 
Avas  ever  in  want.  '  I'll  let  all  England  know 
I'm  in  want,'  she  said,  '  before  I  tell  Catherick. 
or  any  friend  of  Catherick's.  Take  that  for 
your  answer,  and  give  it  to  him  for  an  answer 
if  he  ever  writes  again.'" 

"  Do  you  suppose  that  she  had  money  of  her 
own?" 

"Very  little,  if  any.  Sir.  It  was  said,  and 
said  truly,  I  am  afraid,  tliat  her  means  of  living 
came  privately  from  Sir  rcrcival  Clyde." 

After  that  last  reply  I  waited  a  little  to  re- 
consider wliat  1  had  heard.  If  I  unreservedly 
accepted  the  story  so  far,  it  was  now  plain  thai 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


197 


no  approach,  direct  or  indirect,  to  the  Secret 
had  yet  been  revealed  to  me,  and  that  the  pur- 
suit of  my  object  liad  ended  again  in  leaving  me 
face  to  face  with  the  most  palpable  and  the 
most  disheartening  failure. 

But  there  was  one  point  in  the  narrative  which 
made  me  doubt  the  propriety  of  accepting  it  un- 
reservedly, and  which  suggested  the  idea  of 
something  hidden  below  the  surface.  I  could 
not  account  to  myself  for  the  circumstance  of 
the  clerk's  guilty  wife  voluntai'ily  living  out  all 
her  after-existence  on  the  scene  of  her  disgrace. 
The  woman's  own  reported  statement  that  she 
had  taken  this  strange  course  as  a  practical  as- 
sertion of  her  innocence  did  not  satisfy  me.  It 
seemed  to  my  mind  more  natural  and  more 
probable  to  assume  that  she  was  not  so  com- 
pletely a  free  agent  in  this  matter  as  she  had 
herself  asserted.  In  that  case,  who  was  the 
likeliest  person  to  possess  the  power  of  compel- 
ling her  to  remain  at  Welmingham  ?  The  per- 
son unquestionably  from  whom  she  derived  the 
means  of  living.  She  had  refused  assistance 
from  her  husband,  she  had  no  adequate  re- 
sources of  her  own,  she  was  a  friendless,  dis- 
graced woman :  from  what  source  should  she 
derive  help  but  from  the  source  at  which  report 
pointed — Sir  Percival  Clyde  ? 

Reasoning  on  these  assumptions,  and  always 
bearing  in  mind  the  one  certain  fact  to  guide 
me,  that  Mrs.  Catherick  was  in  possession  of 
the  Secret,  I  easily  undei'stood  that  it  was  Sir 
Percival's  interest  to  keep  her  at  Welmingham, 
because  her  character  in  that  place  was  certain 
to  isolate  her  from  all  communication  with  fe- 
male neighbors,  and  to  allow  her  no  opportuni- 
ties of  talking  incautiously  in  moments  of  free 
intercourse  with  inquisitive  bosom  friends.  But 
what  was  the  mystery  to  be  concealed?  Not 
Sir  Pei'cival's  infamous  connection  with  Mrs. 
Catherick's  disgrace — for  the  neighbors  were 
the  very  people  who  knew  of  it.  Not  the  sus- 
picion that  he  was  Anne's  father — for  Welming- 
ham was  the  place  in  which  that  suspicion  must 
inevitably  exist.  If  I  accepted  the  guilty  ap- 
pearances described  to  me  as  unreservedly  as 
others  had  accepted  them ;  if  I  drew  from  them 
the  same  superficial  conclusion  which  J\lr.  Cath- 
erick and  all  his  neighbors  had  drawn,  where 
was  the  suggestion  in  all  that  I  had  heard  of  a 
dangerous  secret  between  Sir  Percival  and  Mrs. 
Catherick  which  had  been  kept  hidden  from 
that  time  to  this  ?  And  yet  in  those  stolen 
meetings,  in  those  familiar  whisperings  between 
the  clerk's  wife  and  "  the  gentleman  in  mourn- 
ing" the  clew  to  discovery  existed  beyond  a 
doubt. 

Was  it  possible  that  appearances  in  this  case 
had  pointed  one  way,  while  the  truth  lay,  all  the 
while  unsuspected,  in  another  direction  ?  Could 
Mrs.  Catherick's  assertion,  that  she  was  the  vic- 
tim of  a  di'eadful  mistake,  by  any  possibility  be 
true?  Or,  assuming  it  to  be  false,  could  the 
conclusion  which  associated  Sir  Percival  with 
her  guilt  have  been  foimded  in  some  inconceiv- 
able eiTor?  Had  Sir  Percival  by  any  chance 
courted  the  suspicion  that  was  wrong  for  the 
sake  of  diverting  from  himself  some  other  sus- 
picion that  might  be  right?  Here,  if  I  could 
find  it,  here  was  the  approach  to  the  Secret 
hidden  deep  under  the  surface  of  the  apparent- 
ly unpromising  story  which  I  had  just  heard. 


My  next  questions  were  now  directed  to  the 
one  object  of  ascertaining  whether  Mr.  Cather- 
ick had  or  had  not  arrived  truly  at  the  convic- 
tion of  his  wife's  infidelity.  The  answers  I  re- 
ceived from  Mrs.  Clements  left  me  in  no  doubt 
whatever  on  that  point.  Mrs.  Catherick  had 
on  the  clearest  evidence  compromised  her  repu- 
tation, while  a  single  woman,  with  some  person 
unknown,  and  had  married  to  save  her  charac- 
ter. It  had  been  positively  ascertained,  by  cal- 
culations of  time  into  which  I  need  not  entei 
particularly,  that  the  daughter  who  bore  hei 
husband's  name  Avas  not  her  husband's  child. 

The  next  object  of  inquiry,  whether  it  was 
equally  certain  that  Sir  Percival  must  have  been 
the  father  of  Anne,  was  beset  by  far  greater 
difficulties.  I  was  in  no  ])osition  to  trj'  the  prob- 
abilities on  one  side  or  on  the  other,  in  this  in- 
stance, by  any  better  test  than  the  test  of  per- 
sonal resemblance. 

"I  suppose  you  often  saw  Sir  Percival  when 
he  was  in  your  village  ?"  I  said. 

"Yes,  Sir,  V£ry  often,"  replied  Mrs.  Clem- 
ents. 

"Did  you  ever  observe  that  Anne  was  like 
him?" 

"She  was  not  at  all  like  him.  Sir." 

"Was  she  like  her  mother,  then?" 

"  Not  like  her  mother  cither.  Sir.  Mrs.  Cath- 
erick was  dark,  and  full  in  the  face." 

Not  like  her  mother,  and  not  like  her  (sup- 
posed) father.  I  knew  that  the  test  by  personal 
resemblance  was  not  to  be  implicitly  trusted ; 
but,  on  the  other  hand,  it  was  not  to  be  alto- 
gether rejected  on  that  account.  Was  it  possi- 
ble to  strengthen  the  evidence  by  discovering 
any  conclusive  facts  in  relation  to  the  lives  of 
Mrs.  Catherick  and  Sir  Percival  before  they  ei- 
ther of  them  appeared  at  Old  Welmingham  ? 
When  I  asked  my  next  questions  I  put  them 
with  this  view. 

"When  Sir  Percival  first  appeared  in  your 
neighborhood,"  I  said,  "did  jou  hear  where  he 
had  come  from  last?" 

"  No,  Sir.  Some  said  from  Blackwater  Park, 
and  some  said  from  Scotland,  but  nobody  knew." 

"  Was  Mrs.  Catherick  living  in  service  at  Var- 
neck  Hall  immediately  before  her  marriage?" 

"Yes,  Sir." 

"And  had  she  been  long  in  her  place?" 

"Three  or  four  years,  Sir;  I  am  not  quite 
certain  which." 

"Did  you  ever  hear  the  name  of  the  gentle- 
man to  whom  Varneck  Hall  belonged  at  that 
time?" 

"Yes,  Sir.    His  name  was  Major  Donthorne." 

"Did  Mr.  Catherick,  or  did  any  one  else  j^ou 
knew,  ever  hear  that  Sir  Percival  was  a  friend 
of  Major  Donthorne's,  or  ever  see  Sir  Percival 
in  the  neighborhood  of  Varneck  Hall  ?" 

"  Catherick  never  did.  Sir,  that  I  can  remem- 
ber— nor  any  one  else,  either,  that  I  know  of." 

I  noted  down  Major  Donthorne's  name  and 
address,  on  the  chance  that  he  might  still  be 
alive,  and  that  it  might  be  useful  at  some  future 
time  to  apply  to  him.  Meanwhile,  the  impres- 
sion on  my  mind  was  now  decidedly  adverse  to 
the  opinion  that  Sir  Percival  was  Anne's  father, 
and  decidedly  favorable  to  the  conclusion  that 
the  secret  of  his  stolen  interviews  with  Mrs. 
Catherick  was  entirely  unconnected  with  the 
disgrace  which  the  woman  had  inflicted  on  her 


198 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


husband's  pood  name.  I  could  think  of  no  fur- 
ther inquiries  which  I  might  make  to  strengthen 
this  impression — I  could  only  encourage  Mrs. 
Clements  to  speak  next  of  Anne's  early  days, 
and  watch  for  any  ciiancc  suggestion  which 
might  in  this  way  offer  itself  to  me. 

"I  have  not  heard  yet,"  I  said,  "how  the 
poor  child,  born  in  all  this  sin  and  misery,  came 
to  be  trusted,  Mrs.  Clements,  to  your  care." 

"There  was  nobody  else,  Sir,  to  take  the 
little  helpless  creature  in  hand,"  replied  Mrs. 
Clements.  "The  M'icked  mother  seemed  to 
hate  it — as  if  tlie  poor  baby  was  in  fault! — from 
the  day  it  was  born.  My  heart  was  heavy  for 
the  child,  and  I  made  the  offer  to  bring  it  up 
as  tenderly  as  if  it  was  my  own." 

"  Did  Anne  remain  entirely  under  your  care 
from  that  time  ?" 

"  Not  quite  entirely,  Sir.  Mrs.  Catherick  had 
her  whims  and  fancies  about  it,  at  times  ;  and 
used  now  and  then  to  lay  claim  to  the  child,  as 
if  she  wanted  to  spite  me  for  bringing  it  up. 
But  these  fits  of  hers  never  lasted  for  long. 
Poor  little  Anne  was  always  returned  to  me, 
and  was  always  glad  to  get  back — though  she 
led  but  a  gloomy  life  in  my  house,  having  no 
playmates,  like  other  children,  to  brighten  her 
up.  Our  longest  separation  was  when  her  mo- 
ther took  her  to  Limmeridge.  Just  at  that 
time  I  lost  my  husband,  and  I  felt  it  was  as  well, 
in  that  miserable  affliction,  that  Anne  should  not 
be  in  the  house.  She  was  between  ten  and 
eleven  years  old  then,  slow  at  her  lessons,  poor 
soul,  and  not  so  cheerful  as  other  cliildren,  but 
as  pi-etty  a  little  girl  to  look  at  as  you  would 
wish  to  see.  I  waited  at  home  till  her  mother 
brought  her  back  ;  and  then  I  made  the  offer  to 
take  her  with  me  to  London — the  truth  being. 
Sir,  that  I  could  not  find  it  in  my  heart  to  stop 
at  Old  Welmingham  after  my  husband's  death, 
the  place  was  so  changed  and  so  dismal  tome." 

"And  did  Mrs.  Catherick  consent  to  your 
proposal  ?" 

"No,  Sir.  She  came  back  from  the  north 
harder  and  bitterer  than  ever.  Folks  did  say 
that  she  had  been  obliged  to  ask  Sir  Percival's 
leave  to  go,  to  begin  with ;  and  that  she  only 
went  to  nurse  her  dying  sister  at  Limmeridge 
because  the  poor  woman  was  reported  to  have 
saved  money — the  truth  being  that  she  hardly 
left  enough  to  bury  her.  These  things  may  have 
soured  Mrs.  Catherick,  likely  enough ;  but  how- 
ever that  may  be,  she  wouldn't  hear  of  my  tak- 
ing the  child  away.  She  seemed  to  like  dis- 
tressing us  both  by  parting  us.  All  I  could  do 
was  to  give  Anne  my  direction,  and  to  tell  her 
privately,  if  she  was  ever  in  trouble,  to  come  to 
me.  But  years  passed  before  she  was  free  to 
come.  I  never  saw  her  again,  poor  soul,  till  the 
night  she  escaped  from  the  mad-house." 

"  You  know,  Mrs.  Clements,  why  Sir  Percival 
Glyde  shut  her  up?" 

"  I  only  know  what  Anne  herself  told  me,  Sir. 
The  poor  thing  used  to  ramble  and  wander  about 
it  sadly!  She  said  her  motlier  had  got  some 
secret  of  Sir  Percival's  to  kceji,  and  had  let  it 
out  to  her,  long  after  I  left  IIami)shire ;  and 
when  Sir  Percival  found  she  knew  it  he  shut 
her  up.  But  she  never  could  say  what  it  was, 
when  I  asked  her.  All  slie  couid  tell  me  was 
that  her  mother  might  be  the  ruin  and  destruc- 
tion of  Sir  Percival  if  she  chose.    Mrs.  Cather- 


ick may  have  let  out  just  as  much  as  that,  and 
no  more.  I'm  next  to  certain  I  should  have 
heard  the  whole  truth  from  Anne  if  she  had 
really  known  it,  as  she  pretended  to  do,  and  as 
she  very  likely  fancied  she  did,  poor  soul !" 

This  idea  had  more  than  once  occurred  to  my 
own  mind.  I  had  already  told  Marian  that  I 
doubted  whether  Laura  w'as  really  on  the  point 
of  making  any  important  discover)'  when  she 
and  Anne  Catherick  were  disturbed  by  Count 
Fosco  at  the  boat-house.  It  was  perfectly  in 
character  with  Anne's  mental  affliction  that  she 
should  assume  an  absolute  knowledge  of  the 
Secret  on  no  better  grounds  than  vague  suspi- 
cion, derived  from  hints  which  her  mother  had 
incautiously  let  drop  in  her  presence.  Sir  Per- 
cival's guilty  distrust  would,  in  that  case,  infal- 
libly inspire  him  Mith  the  false  idea  that  Anne 
knew  all  from  her  mother,  just  as  it  had  after- 
ward fixed  in  his  mind  the  equally  false  sus- 
picion that  his  wife  knew  all  from  Anne. 

The  time  was  passing ;  the  morning  was  wear- 
ing away.  It  was  doubtful,  if  I  staid  longer, 
whether  I  should  hear  any  thing  more  from  Mrs. 
Clements  that  would  be  at  all  useful  to  my  pur- 
pose. I  had  already  discovered  those  local  and 
family  particulars  in  relation  to  Mrs.  Cather- 
ick of  which  I  had  been  in  search  ;  and  I  had 
arrived  at  certain  conclusions,  entirely  new  to 
me,  which  might  immensely  assist  in  directing 
the  course  of  my  future  proceedings.  I  rose  to 
take  my  leave,  and  to  thank  Mrs.  Clements  for 
the  friendly  readiness  she  had  shown  in  afford- 
ing me  information. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  must  have  thought  me  very 
inquisitive,"  I  said.  "  I  have  troubled  you  with 
more  questions  than  many  people  would  have 
cared  to  answer." 

"  You  are  heartily  welcome.  Sir,  to  any  thing 
I  can  tell  you,"  answered  Mrs.  Clements.  She 
stopped,  and  looked  at  me  wistfully.  "But  I 
do  wish,"  said  the  poor  woman,  "you  could 
have  told  me  a  little  more  about  Anne,  Sir.  I 
thought  I  saw  something  in  your  face,  when  you 
came  in,  which  looked  as  if  you  could.  You 
can't  think  how  hard  it  is  not  even  to  know 
whether  she  is  living  or  dead.  I  could  bear  it 
better  if  I  was  only  certain.  You  said  you 
never  expected  we  should  see  her  alive  again. 
Do  you  know,  Sir — do  you  know  for  truth — 
that  it  has  pleased  God  to  take  her?" 

I  was  not  proof  against  this  a]  ipcal ;  it  would 
have  been  unspeakably  mean  and  cruel  of  me 
if  I  had  resisted  it. 

"  I  am  afraid  there  is  no  doubt  of  the  truth," 
I  answered,  gently;  "I  have  the  certainty,  in 
my  own  mind,  that  her  troubles  in  this  world 
are  over." 

The  poor  woman  dropped  into  her  chair,  and 
hid  her  face  from  me.  "Oh,  Sir,"  she  said, 
"how  do  you  know  it?  Who  can  have  told 
you?" 

"  No  one  has  told  me,  I\Irs.  Clements.  But  I 
have  reasons  for  feeling  sure  of  it — reasons  which 
I  promise  you  shall  know  as  soon  as  I  can  safe- 
ly explain  them.  I  am  certain  she  was  not  ne- 
glected in  her  last  moments ;  I  am  certain  the 
heart-comiilaint,  from  which  she  suffered  so 
sadly,  was  the  true  cause  of  her  death.  You 
shall  feel  as  sure  of  this  as  I  do  soon  —  you 
shall  know  before  long  that  she  is  buried  in  a 
quiet  country  church-yard;  in  a  pretty,  peaceful 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


199 


place,  which  you  might  have  chosen  for  her 
yourself." 

"Dead!"  said  Mrs.  Clements;  "dead  so 
young — and  I  am  left  to  hear  it !  I  made  her 
first  short  frocks.  I  taught  her  to  walk.  The 
first  time  she  ever  said  Mother  slie  said  it  to 
me ;  and  now  I  am  left  and  Anne  is  taken ! 
Did  you  say,  Sir,"  said  the  j)oor  woman,  remov- 
ing the  liandkerchief  from  her  face,  and  looking 
up  at  me  for  the  first  time — "did  you  say  that 
she  had  been  nicely  buried  ?  Was  it  the  sort  of 
funeral  she  might  have  had  if  she  had  really 
been  my  own  child  ?" 

I  assured  her  that  it  was.  She  seemed  to 
take  an  inexplicable  pride  in  my  answer — to  find 
a  comfort  in  it,  which  no  other  and  higher  con- 
siderations could  ailord.  "  It  would  have  broken 
my  heart,"  she  said,  simply,  "  if  Anne  had  not 
been  nicely  buried ;  but  how  do  you  know  it, 
Sir?  who  told  you?"  I  once  more  entreated 
her  to  wait  until  I  could  speak  to  her  more  un- 
reservedly. *'  You  are  sure  to  see  me  again," 
I  said;  "for  I  have  a  favor  to  ask,  when  you 
are  a  little  more  composed — perhaps  in  a  day  or 
two." 

"Don't  keep  it  waiting.  Sir,  on  my  account," 
said  Mrs.  Clements.  "Never  mind  my  crying, 
if  I  can  be  of  use.  If  you  have  any  thing  on 
your  mind  to  say  to  me.  Sir,  please  to  say  it 
now." 

"I  only  wished  to  ask  you  one  last  question," 
I  said.  "I  only  wanted  to  know  Mrs.  Cather- 
ick's  address  at  Welmingham." 

My  request  so  startled  Mrs.  Clements  that 
for  the  moment  even  the  tidings  of  Anne's 
death  seemed  to  be  driven  from  her  mind.  Her 
tears  suddenly  ceased  to  fiow,  and  she  sat  look- 
ing at  me  in  blank  amazement. 

"  For  the  Lord's  sake.  Sir !"  she  said,  "  what 
do  you  want  with  Mrs.  Catherick?" 

"I  want  this,  Mrs.  Clements,"  I  replied:  "  I 
want  to  know  the  secret  of  those  private  meet- 
ings of  hers  with  Sir  Percival  Glyde.  There  is 
something  more,  in  what  you  have  told  me  of 
that  woman's  past  conduct  and  of  that  man's 
past  relations  with  her,  than  you  or  any  of  your 
neighbors  ever  suspected.  There  is  a  Secret  we 
none  of  us  know  of  between  those  two,  and  I 
am  going  to  Mrs.  Catherick  with  the  resolution 
to  find  it  out." 

"  Think  twice  about  it.  Sir !"  said  Mrs.  Clem- 
ents, rising,  in  her  earnestness,  and  laying  her 
hand  on  my  arm.  "  She's  an  awful  woman — 
you  don't  know  her  as  I  do.  Think  twice  about 
it." 

"I  am  sure  your  warning  is  kindly  meant, 
Mrs.  Clements.  But  I  am  determined  to  see 
the  woman,  whatever  comes  of  it." 

Mrs.  Clements  looked  me  anxiously  in  the 
face. 

"  I  see  your  mind  is  made  up,  Sir,"  she  said. 
"I  will  give  you  the  address." 

I  wrote  it  down  in  my  pocket-book,  and  then 
took  the  good  woman  by  the  hand  to  say  fare- 
well. 

"  You  shall  hear  from  me  soon, "  I  said  ;  "you 
shall  know  all  that  I  have  promised  to  tell  yo'u." 
Mrs.  Clements  sighed,  and  shook  her  head 
doubtfully. 

"  An  old  woman's  advice  is  sometimes  worth 
taking.  Sir,"  she  said.  "Think  twice  before 
you  go  to  Welmingham." 


VII. 
When  I  reached  home  again,  after  my  inter- 
view with  Mrs.  Clements,  I  was  struck  by  the 
appearance  of  a  change  in  Laura. 

The  unvarying  gentleness  and  patience  which 
long  misfortune  had  tried  so  cruelly,  and  had 
never  conquered  yet,  seemed  now  to  have  sud- 
denly failed  her.  Insensible  to  all  Marian's  at- 
tempts to  soothe  and  amuse  her,  she  sat,  witli 
her  neglected  drawing  pushed  away  on  the  ta- 
ble ;  her  eyes  resolutely  cast  down,  her  fingers 
twining  and  imtwining  themselves  restlessly  in 
her  lap.  Marian  rose  when  I  came  in,  with  a 
silent  distress  in  her  face ;  waited  for  a  mo- 
ment to  see  if  Laura  would  look  \\\>  at  my  ap- 
]iroach  ;  wJiispered  to  me,  "Try  if  ^^om  can  rouse 
her;"  and  left  the  room. 

I  sat  down  in  the  vacant  chair ;  gently  un- 
clasped the  poor,  worn,  restless  fingers ;  and 
took  both  her  hands  in  mine. 

"What  are  you  thinking  of,  Laura?  Tell 
me,  my  darling — try  and  tell  me  what  it  is." 

She  struggled  with  herself,  and  raised  her  eyes 
to  mine.  "I  can't  feel  happy,"  she  said;  "I 
can't  help  thinking — "  She  stopped,  bent  for- 
ward a  little,  and  laid  her  head  on  my  shoulder, 
with  a  terrible  mute  helplessness  that  struck  me 
to  the  heart. 

"Try  to  tell  me,"  I  repeated,  gently;  "  try 
to  tell  me  why  3'Ou  are  not  happy."  > 

"I  am  so  useless — I  am  such  a  burden  on 
both  of  you,"  she  answered,  with  a  weary, 
hopeless  sigh.  "Y''ou  work  and  get  money, 
Walter ;  and  Marian  helps  you.  Wliy  is  there 
nothing  I  can  do  ?  Y^ou  will  end  in  liking  Ma- 
rian better  than  you  like  me — you  will,  because 
I  am  so  helpless !  Oh  don't,  don't,  don't  treat 
me  like  a  child  !" 

I  raised  her  head,  and  smoothed  away  the 
tangled  hair  that  fell  over  her  face,  and  kissed 
her — my  poor,  faded  flower!  my  lost,  afilicted 
sister!  "Y'ou  shall  help  us,  Laura,"  I  said; 
"you  shall  begin,  my  darling,  to-day!" 

She  looked  at  me  with  a  feverish  eagerness, 
with  a  bi-eathless  interest,  that  made  me  trem- 
ble for  the  new  life  of  hope  which  I  had  called 
into  being  by  those  few  words. 

I  rose,  and  set  her  drawing  materials  in  order,, 
and  ])laced  them  near  her  again. 

"You  know  that  I  work  and  get  money  by 
drawing,"  I  said.  "Now  you  have  taken  such 
pains,  now  you  are  so  much  improved,  you  shall 
begin  to  work  and  get  money  too.  Try  to  finish 
this  little  sketch  as  nicely  and  prettily  as  you 
can.  When  it  is  done  I  will  take  it  away  witli 
me ;  and  the  same  person  will  buy  it  who  buys 
all  that  I  do.  You  shall  keep  your  own  earn- 
ings in  your  own  purse;  and  IMarian  shall  come 
to  you  to  help  her  as  often  as  she  comes  to  me. 
Think  how  useful  you  are  going  to  make  your- 
self to  both  of  us,  and  you  will  soon  be  as  hap- 
py, Laura,  as  the  day  is  long." 

Her  face  grew  eager,  and  brightened  into  a 
smile.  In  the  moment  while  it  lasted,  in  the 
moment  wlien  she  again  took  up  the  pencils 
that  had  been  laid  aside,  she  almost  looked 
like  the  Laura  of  past  days.  I  had  not  misin- 
terpreted the  first  signs  of  a  new  growth  and 
strength  in  her  mind,  unconsciously  expressing 
themselves  in  the  notice  she  had  taken  of  the 
occupations  which  filled  her  sister's  life   and 


200 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


mine,  and  in  the  inference  that  she  liad  truly 
drawn  from  them  for  herself.  Marian  (when  I 
told  her  what  had  passed)  saw,  as  I  saw,  that 
she  was  longing  to  assume  her  own  little  position 
of  impoi'tance,  to  raise  herself  in  her  own  esti- 
mation and  in  ours  ;  and  from  that  day  we  ten- 
derly helped  the  new  ambition  which  gave  prom- 
ise of  the  hopeful,  happier  future  that  might  now 
not  be  far  off.  Her  drawings,  as  she  finished 
them,  or  tried  to  finish  them,  were  placed  in 
my  hands ;  Marian  took  them  from  me  and  hid 
them  carefully ;  and  I  set  aside  a  little  weekly 
tribute  from  my  earnings,  to  be  offered  to  her  as 
the  price  paid  by  strangers  for  the  poor,  faint, 
valueless  sketches  of  which  I  was  the  only  pur- 
chaser. It  was  hard  sometimes  to  maintain  our 
innocent  deception,  when  she  proudly  brought 
out  her  purse  to  contrilnite  her  share  toward 
the  expenses,  and  wondered,  with  serious  inter- 
est, whether  I  or  she  had  earned  the  most  that 
week.  I  have  all  tliosc  hidden  drawings  in  my 
])ossession  still :  they  are  my  treasures  beyond 
price — the  dear  remembrances  that  I  love  to 
keep  alive — the  friends,  in  past  adversity,  that 
my  heart  will  never  part  from,  my  tenderness 
never  forget. 

Am  I  trifling  here  with  the  necessities  of  my 
task  ?  am  I  looking  forward  to  the  happier  time 


which  my  narrative  has  not  yet  reached?  Yes. 
Back  again  —  back  to  the  days  of  doubt  and 
dread,  when  the  spirit  within  me  struggled 
hard  i^or  its  life,  in  the  icy  stillness  of  perpetual 
suspense.  I  have  paused  and  rested  for  a  while 
on  the  course  which  is  leading  me  to  the  End. 
Is  it  time  wasted  if  the  friends  who  read  these 
pages  have  paused  and  rested  too  ? 

I  took  the  first  opportunity  I  cotdd  find  of 
speaking  to  Marian  in  private,  and  of  communi- 
cating to  her  the  result  of  the  inquiries  which  I 
had  made  that  morning.  She  seemed  to  share 
the  ojiinion  on  the  subject  of  my  proposed  jour- 
ney to  Welmingham,  which  Mrs.  Clements  had 
already  expressed  to  me. 

"  Siirely,  Walter,"  she  said,  "j-oii  hardly 
know  enough  yet  to  give  yon  any  hope  of  claim- 
ing Mrs.  Cath'erick's  confidence?  Is  it  wise  to 
]iroceed  to  these  extremities  before  you  h.ive 
really  exhausted  nil  safer  and  simpler  means  of 
attaining  your  object?  When  you  told  me  that 
Sir  Percival  and  the  Count  were  the  only  two 
jieople  in  existence  who  knew  the  exact  date 
of  Laura's  journey,  you  forgot  and  I  forgot  that 
there  was  a  third  jtorson  who  must  surely  know 
it — I  mean  Mrs.  Ixubclle.  Would  it  not  he  far 
easier,  and  far  less  dangerous,  to  insist  on  a 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


201 


confession  from  her  than  to  force  it  from  Sir 
Percival  ?" 

"  It  might  be  easier,"  I  replied ;  "hut  we  are 
not  aware  of  the  full  extent  of  Mrs.  Rubelle's 
connivance  and  interest  in  the  conspiracy ;  and 
we  are  therefore  not  certain  that  the  date  has 
been  impressed  on  her  mind,  as  it  has  been 
assuredly  impressed  on  the  minds  of  Sir  Per- 
cival and  the  Count.  It  is  too  late  now  to 
waste  the  time  on  Mrs.  Rubelle,  which  may  be 
all-important  to  the  discovery  of  the  one  assail- 
able point  in  Sir  Percival's  life.  Are  you  think- 
ing a  little  too  seriously,  Marian,  of  tke  risk  I 
may  run  in  returning  to  Hampshire  ?  Are  you 
beginning  to  doubt  whether  Sir  Percival  Glyde 
may  not,  in  the  end,  be  more  than  a  match  for 
me?" 

"He  will  not  be  more  than  your  match,"  slie 
replied,  decidedly,  "  because  he  will  not  be 
helped  in  resisting  you  by  the  impenetrable 
wickedness  of  tlie  Count." 

"What  has  led  you  to  that  conclusion?"  I 
asked,  in  some  surprise. 

"  My  own  knowledge  of  Sir  Percival's  ob- 
stinacy and  impatience  of  the  Count's  control," 
she  answered.  "  I  believe  he  will  insist  on 
meeting  you  single-handed — just  as  he  insisted, 
at  first,  on  acting  for  himself  at  Blackwater 
Pai'k.  The  time  for  suspecting  the  Count's  in- 
terference will  be  the  time  when  you  have  Sir 
Percival  at  your  mercy.  His  own  interests  will 
then  be  directly  threatened ;  and  he  will  act, 
Walter,  to  terrible  purpose  in  his  own  defense." 

"We  may  deprive  him  of  his  weapons  before- 
hand," I  said.  "  Some  of  the  particulars  I  have 
heard  from  Mrs.  Clements  may  yet  be  turned 
to  account  against  him;  and  other  means  of 
sti'engthening  the  case  may  be  at  our  disposal. 
There  are  passages  in  Mi"s.  jNIichelson's  narra- 
tive which  show  that  the  Count  found  it  neces- 
sary to  place  himself  in  communication  with 
Mr.  Fairlie ;  and  there  may  be  circumstances 
which  compromise  him  in  that  proceeding. 
While  I  am  away,  Marian,  write  to  Mr.  Fairlie, 
and  say  that  you  want  an  answer  describing  ex- 
actly what  passed  between  the  Count  and  him- 
self, and  informing  you  also  of  any  particulars 
that  may  have  come  to  his  knowledge  at  the 
same  time  in  connection  with  his  niece.  Tell 
him,  in  case  he  hesitates  to  comply,  that  the 
statement  you  request  will,  sooner  or  later,  be 
insisted  on  if  he  shows  any  reluctance  to  furnish 
you  with  it  of  his  own  accord." 

"The  letter  shall  be  written,  Walter.  But  are 
you  really  determined  to  go  to  Welmingham?" 

"Absolutely  determined.  I  will  devote  the 
next  two  days  to  earning  what  we  want  for  the 
week  to  come ;  and  on  the  third  day  I  go  to 
Hampshire." 

When  the  third  day  came  I  was  ready  for  my 
journey. 

As  it  was  possible  that  I  might  be  absent  for 
some  little  time,  I  arranged  with  Marian  that 
we  were  to  write  to  each  other  every  day.  As 
long  as  I  heard  from  her  regularly,  I  should  as- 
sume that  nothing  was  wrong.  But  if  the  morn- 
ing came  and  brought  me  no  letter,  my  return 
to  London  would  take  place,  as  a  matter  of 
course,  by  the  first  train.  I  contrived  to  recon- 
cile Laura  to  my  departure  by  telling  her  that  I 
was  going  to  the  country  to  find  new  purchasers 
for  her  drawings  and  for  mine ;  and  I  left  her 


occupied  and  happy.  Marian  followed  me  down 
stairs  to  the  street  door. 

"Remember  what  anxious  hearts  you  leave 
here,"  she  whispered,  as  we  stood  together  in 
the  passage ;  "  remember  all  the  hopes  that  hang 
on  your  safe  return.  If  strange  things  happen 
to  you  on  this  journey ;  if  you  and  Sir  Percival 
meet — " 

"What  makes  you  think  we  shall  meet?"  I 
asked. 

"I  don't  know — I  have  fears  and  fancies  that 
I  can't  account  for.  Laugh  at  them,  Walter,  if 
you  like — but  for  God's  sake  keep  your  temper 
if  you  come  in  contact  with  that  man!" 

"Never  fear,  Marian!  I  answer  for  my  self- 
control." 

With  these  words  we  parted. 

I  walked  briskly  to  the  station.  There  was  a 
glow  of  hope  in  me ;  there  was  a  growing  con- 
viction in  my  mind  that  my  journey  this  time 
would  not  be  taken  in  vain.  It  was  a  fine,  clear, 
cold  morning;  my  nerves  were  firmly  strung,  and 
I  felt  all  the  strength  of  my  resolution  stirring 
in  me  vigorously  from  head  to  foot. 

As  I  crossed  the  railway  platform,  and  looked 
right  and  left  among  the  people  congregated  on 
it,  to  search  for  any  faces  among  them  that  I 
knew,  the  doubt  occurred  to  me  whether  it  might 
not  have  been  to  my  advantage  if  I  had  adopt- 
ed a  disguise  before  setting  out  for  Hampshire. 
But  there  was  something  so  repellent  to  me  in 
the  idea — something  so  meanly  like  the  common 
herd  of  spies  and  informers  in  the  mere  act  of 
adopting  a  disguise — that  I  dismissed  the  ques- 
tion from  consideration  almost  as  soon  as  it  had 
risen  in  my  mind.  Even  as  a  mere  matter  of 
expediency  the  proceeding  was  doulitful  in  the 
extreme.  If  I  tried  the  experiment  at  home, 
the  landlord  of  the  house  would  sooner  or  later 
discover  me,  and  wonld  have  his  snspicions 
aroused  immediately.  If  I  tried  it  away  from 
home,  the  same  persons  might  see  me,  by  the 
commonest  accident,  with  the  disguise  and  with- 
out it ;  and  I  should  in  that  way  be  inviting  the 
notice  and  distrust  which  it  was  my  most  press- 
ing interest  to  avoid.  In  my  own  character  I 
had  acted  thus  far — and  in  my  own  character  I 
was  resolved  to  continue  to  the  end. 

The  train  left  me  at  Welmingham  early  in 
the  afternoon. 

Is  there  any  wilderness  of  sand  in  the  deserts 
of  Arabia,  is  there  any  prospect  of  desolation 
among  the  ruins  of  Palestine  which  can  rival 
the  repelling  effect  on  the  eye,  and  the  dejiress- 
ing  influence  on  the  mind,  of  an  English  coun- 
try town,  in  the  first  stage  of  its  existence,  and 
in  the  transition-state  of  its  prospeinty  ?  I  asked 
myself  that  question  as  I  passed  through  the 
clean  desolation,  the  neat  ugliness,  the  prim 
torpor  of  the  streets  of  Welmingham.  And  the 
tradesmen  who  stared  after  me  from  their  lone- 
ly shops  ;  the  trees  that  drooped  helpless  in  their 
arid  exile  of  unfinished  crescents  and  squares  ; 
the  dead  house-carcasses  that  waited  in  vain  for 
the  vivifying  human  element  to  animate  them 
with  the  breath  of  life ;  every  creature  that  I 
saw,  every  object  that  I  passed,  seemed  to  an- 
swer with  one  accord :  The  deserts  of  Arabia 
are  innocent  of  out  civilized  desolation ;  the 
ruins  of  Palestine  are  incapable  of  our  modei'n 
gloom ! 

I  inquired  my  way  to  the  quarter  of  the  town 


202 


THE  WOMAN  m  WHITE. 


in  •which  Mrs.  Catherick  lived  ;  and  on  reach- 
ing it  found  myself  in  a  square  of  small  houses 
one  story  high.  There  was  a  bare  little  plot  of 
grass  in  the  middle  protected  by  a  cheap  wire 
fence.  An  elderly  nurse-maid  and  two  chil- 
dren were  standing  in  a  corner  of  the  inclosure 
looking  at  a  lean  goat  tethered  to  the  grass. 
Two  foot  passengers  were  talking  together  on 
one  side  of  the  pavement  before  the  houses,  and 
an  idle  little  boy  was  leading  an  idle  little  dog 
along  by  a  string  on  the  other.  I  heard  the  dull 
tinkling  of  a  piano  at  a  distance,  accompanied 
by  the  intermittent  knocking  of  a  hammer  near- 
er at  hand.  These  were  all  the  sights  and  sounds 
of  life  that  encountered  me  when  I  entered  the 
square. 

I  walked  at  once  to  the  door  of  No.  13 — the 
number  of  Mrs.  Catherick's  house — and  knock- 
ed, without  waiting  to  consider  beforehand  how 
I  might  best  present  myself  when  I  got  in. 
The  first  necessity  was  to  see  Mrs.  Catherick. 
I  could  then  judge  from  my  own  observation  of 
the  safest  and  easiest  manner  of  approaching 
the  object  of  my  visit. 

The  door  was  opened  by  a  melancholy,  mid- 
dle-aged woman  servant.  I  gave  her  my  card, 
and  asked  if  I  could  see  Mrs.  Catherick.  The 
card  was  taken  into  the  front  parlor,  and  the 
servant  returned  with  a  message  requesting  me 
to  mention  what  my  business  was. 

"  Say,  if  you  please,  that  my  business  relates 
to  Mrs.  Catherick's  daugliter,"  I  re])lied.  This 
was  the  best  pretext  I  could  think  of  on  the 
spur  of  the  moment  to  account  for  my  visit. 

The  servant  again  retired  to  the  jiarlor,  again 
returned,  and  this  time  begged  me,  with  a  look 
of  gloomy  amazement,  to  walk  in. 

I  entered  a  little  room  with  a  flaring  paper 
of  the  largest  pattern  on  the  walls.  Chairs, 
tables,  chiffonnier,  and  sofa  all  gleamed  with  the 
glutinous  brightness  of  cheap  upholstery.  On 
the  largest  table  in  the  middle  of  the  room  stood 
a  smart  Bible,  placed  exactly  in  the  centre,  on 
a  red  and  yellow  woolen  mat ;  and  at  the  side 
of  the  table  nearest  to  the  window,  with  a  little 
knitting-basket  on  her  lap,  and  a  wheezing, 
blear-eyed  old  spaniel  crouched  at  her  feet, 
there  sat  an  elderly  woman  wearing  a  black 
net  cap  and  a  black  silk  gown,  and  having  slate- 
colored  mittens  on  her  hands.  Her  iron-gray 
hair  hung  in  heavy  bands  on  either  side  of  her 
face:  her  dark  eyes  looked  straight  forward  with 
a  hard,  defiant,  implacable  stare.  She  had  full, 
square  cheeks ;  a  long,  firm  chin ;  and  thick, 
sensual,  colorless  lips.  Her  figure  was  stout 
and  sturdy,  and  her  manner  aggressively  self- 
possessed.     This  was  Mrs.  Catherick. 

"You  have  come  to  speak  to  me  about  my 
daughter,"  she  said,  before  I  could  utter  a  word 
on  my  side.  "  Be  so  good  as  to  mention  what 
you  have  to  say." 

The  tone  of  her  voice  was  as  hard,  as  defiant, 
as  implacable  as  the  ex))ression  of  her  eyes.  She 
pointed  to  a  chair,  and  looked  me  all  over  at- 
tentively from  head  to  foot  as  I  sat  down  in  it. 
I  saw  that  my  only  chance  with  this  woman 
was  to  speak  to  her  in  her  own  tone,  and  to 
meet  her,  at  the  outset  of  our  interview,  on  her 
own  ground. 

"You  are  aware,"  I  said,  "that  your  daugh- 
ter has  l)een  lost  ?" 

"  I  am  perfectly  aware  of  it."' 


"Have  you  felt  any  apprehension  that  the 
misfortune  of  her  loss  might  be  followed  by  the 
misfortune  of  her  death?" 

"Yes.  Have  you  come  here  to  tell  me  she 
is  dead?" 

"I  have." 

"Why?" 

She  ])ut  that  extraordinary  question  without 
the  slightest  change  in  her  voice,  her  face,  or 
her  manner.  She  could  not  have  apj)eared  more 
perfectly  unconcerned  if  I  had  told  her  of  the 
death  of  the  goat  in  the  inclosure  outside. 

"Why?"  I  repeated.  "Do  you  ask  why  I 
come  here  to  tell  you  of  your  daughter's  death  ?" 

"Yes.  What  interest  have  you  in  me,  or  in 
her?  How  do  you  come  to  know  any  thing 
about  my  daughter  ?" 

"  In  tins  way.  I  met  her  on  the  night  when 
she  escajjcd  from  the  Asylum  ;  and  1  assisted 
her  in  reaching  a  place  of  safety." 

"You  did  very  wrong." 

"I  am  sorry  to  hear  her  mother  say  so." 

"  Her  mother  does  say  so.  How  do  you 
know  she  is  dead  ?" 

"I  am  not  at  liberty  to  say  how  I  know  it ; 
but  I  do  know  it." 

"  Arc  you  at  liberty  to  say  how  you  found  out 
my  address?" 

"  Certainly.  I  got  your  address  from  Mrs. 
Clements." 

"  Mrs.  Clements  is  a  foolish  woman.  Did  she 
tell  you  to  come  here  ?" 

"  She  did  not." 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


203 


"  Then,  I  ask  yon  again,  why  did  you  come  ?" 

As  she  was  determined  to  have  the  answer,  I 
gave  it  to  her  in  the  plainest  possible  form. 

"I  came,"  I  said,  "because  I  thought  Anne 
Catherick's  motlier  might  have  some  natural 
interest  in  knowing  whether  she  was  alive  or 
dead." 

"Just  so,"  said  Mrs.  Catherick,  with  addi- 
tional self-possession.  "  Had  you  no  other  mo- 
tive ?" 

I  hesitated.  The  right  answer  to  that  ques- 
tion was  not  easy  to  find  at  a  moment's  notice. 

"If  you  have  no  other  motive,"  she  went  on, 
deliberately  taking  off  her  slate-colored  mittens, 
and  rolling  them  up,  "I  have  only  to  thank 
you  for  your  visit,  and  to  say  that  I  will  not 
detain  you  here  any  longer.  Your  information 
would  be  more  satisfactory  if  you  were  willing 
to  explain  how  you  became  possessed  of  it. 
However,  it  justifies  me,  I  suppose,  in  going 
into  mourning.  There  is  not  much  alteration 
necessary  in  my  dress,  as  you  see.  When  I 
have  changed  my  mittens  I  shall  be  all  in 
black." 

She  searched  in  the  pocket  of  her  gown, 
drew  out  a  pair  of  black-lace  mittens,  put  them 
on  with  the  stoniest  and  steadiest  composure, 
and  then  quietly  crossed  her  hands  in  her  lap. 

"I  wish  you  good-morning,"  she  said. 

The  cool  contempt  of  her  manner  irritated  me 
into  directly  avowing  that  the  purpose  of  my 
visit  had  not  been  answered  yet. 

"I  have  another  motive  in  coming  here,"  I 
said. 

"Ah!  I  thought  so,"  remarked  Mrs.  Cather- 
ick. 

"Your  daughter's  death — " 

"What  did  she  die  of?" 

"  Of  disease  of  the  heart." 

"Yes?     Goon." 

"Your  daughter's  death  has  been  made  the 
pretext  for  inflicting  serious  injury  on  a  jjerson 
who  is  very  dear  to  me.  Two  men  have  been 
concerned,  to  my  certain  knowledge,  in  doing 
that  wrong.    One  of  them  is  Sir  Percival  Glyde." 

"Indeed?" 

I  looked  attentively  to  see  if  she  flinched  at 
the  sudden  mention  of  that  name.  Not  a  muscle 
of  her  stirred — the  hard,  defiant,  implacable 
stare  in  her  eyes  never  wavered  for  an  instant. 

"You  may  wonder,"  I  went  on,  "how  the 
event  of  your  daughter's  death  can  have  been 
made  the  means  of  inflicting  injury  on  another 
person." 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Catherick;  "I  don't  won- 
der at  all.  This  appears  to  be  your  aft'air.  You 
are  interested  in  my  aff"airs.  I  am  not  inter- 
ested in  yours." 

"You  may  ask,  then,"  I  persisted,  "why  I 
mention  the  matter  in  your  presence." 

"Yes;  I  do  ask  that." 

"I  mention  it  because  T  am  determined  to 
bring  Sir  Percival  Glyde  to  account  for  the 
wickedness  he  has  committed." 

"What  have  I  to  do  with  your  determina- 
tion?" 

"  You  shall  hear.  There  are  certain  events 
in  Sir  Percival's  past  life  which  it  is  necessary 
to  my  purpose  to  be  fully  acquainted  with.  You 
know  them — and  for  that  reason  I  come  to  ^om." 

"What  events  do  you  mean  ?" 

"Events  which  occurred  at  Old  Wclmingham, 


when  your  husband  was  parish-clerk  at  that 
place,  and  before  the  time  when  your  daughter 
was  born." 

I  had  reached  the  woman  at  last  through  the 
barrier  of  impenetrable  reserve  that  she  had 
tried  to  set  up  between  us.  I  saw  her  temper 
smoldering  in  her  eyes  as  plainly  as  I  saw  her 
hands  grow  restless,  then  unclasp  themselves 
and  begin  mechanically  smoothing  her  dress 
over  her  knees. 

"  What  do  you  know  of  these  events?"  she 
asked. 

"All  that  Mrs.  Clements  could  tell  me,"  I 
answered. 

There  was  a  momentary  flush  on  her  firm, 
square  face,  a  momentary  stillness  in  her  rest- 
less hands,  which  seemed  to  betoken  a  coming 
outburst  of  anger  that  might  throw  her  oft'  her 
guard.  But  no  ;  she  mastered  the  rising  irrita- 
tion, leaned  back  in  her  chair,  crossed  her  arms 
on  her  broad  bosom,  and,  with  a  smile  of  grim 
sarcasm  on  her  thick  lips,  looked  at  me  as  stead- 
ily as  ever. 

"Ah  !  I  begin  to  understand  it  all  now,"  she 
said,  her  tamed  and  disciplined  anger  only  ex- 
pressing itself  in  the  elaborate  mockery  of  her 
tone  and  manner.  "You  have  got  a  grudge  of 
your  own  against  Sir  Percival  Glyde,  and  I 
must  help  you  to  wreak  it.  I  must  tell  you 
this,  that,  and  the  other  about  Sir  Percival  and 
myself,  must  I  ?  Yes,  indeed?  You  have  been 
pi'ying  into  my  private  aftairs.  You  think  you 
have  found  a  lost  woman  to  deal  with,  who  lives 
here  on  snfterance,  and  who  will  do  any  thing 
you  ask,  for  fear  you  may  injure  her  in  the 
opinions  of  the  townspeople.  I  see  through  you 
and  your  precious  speculation  —  I  do!  and  it 
amuses  me.     Ha !  ha !" 

She  stopped  for  a  moment :  her  arms  tight- 
ened over  her  bosom,  and  she  laughed  to  her- 
self— a  slow,  quiet,  chuckling  laugh. 

"You  don't  know  how  I  have  lived  in  this 
place,  and  what  I  have  done  in  this  place,  Mr. 
What's-your-name,"  she  went  on.  "I'll  tell 
you,  before  I  ring  the  bell  and  have  you  shown 
out.  I  came  here  a  wronged  woman.  I  came 
here  robbed  of  my  character  and  determined  to 
claim  it  back.  I've  been  years  and  years  about 
it,  and  I  have  claimed  it  back.  I  have  matched 
the  respectable  people  fairly  and  openly  on  their 
own  ground.  If  they  say  any  thing  against  me 
now,  they  must  say  it  in  secret :  they  can't  sa_v 
it,  they  daren't  say  it,  openly.  I  stand  high 
enough  in  this  town  to  be  out  of  your  reach. 
The  clergyman  hoivs  to  me.  Aha !  you  didn't 
bargain  for  that  when  you  came  here.  Go  to 
the  church  and  inquire  about  me — you  will  find 
Mrs.  Catherick  has  her  sitting,  like  the  rest  of 
them,  and  pays  the  rent  on  the  day  it's  due. 
Go  to  the  town-hall.  There's  a  petition  lying 
there — a  petition  of  the  respectable  inhabitants 
against  allowing  a  Circus  to  come  and  perform 
here  and  corrupt  our  morals ;  yes,  our  morals  ! 
I  signed  that  petition  this  morning.  Go  to  the 
bookseller's  shop.  The  clergyman's  Wednesday 
evening  Lectures  on  Justification  by  Faith  are 
publishing  there  by  subscription :  I'm  down  on 
the  list.  The  doctor's  wife  only  put  a  shilling 
in  the  plate  at  our  last  charity  sermon — I  put 
half  a  crown.  Mr.  Churchwarden  Soward  held 
the  plate  and  bowed  to  me.  Ten  years  ago  he 
told  Pigrum,  the  chemist,  I  ought  to  be  whipped 


204 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


out  of  the  town  at  the  cart's  tail.  Is  your  mo- 
ther alive  ?  Has  she  got  a  better  Bible  on  her 
table  than  I  have  got  on  mine  ?  Does  she  stand 
better  with  her  tradespeople  than  I  do  with 
mine?  Has  she  always  lived  within  her  in- 
come ?  I  have  always  lived  within  mine. — Ah ! 
there  is  the  clergyman  coming  along  the  square. 
Look,  Mr.  What's-your-narae  —  look,  if  you 
please!" 

She  started  up  with  the  activity  of  a  young 
woman,  went  to  the  window,  waited  till  the 
clergyman  passed,  and  bowed  to  him  solemnly. 
The  clergyman  ceremoniously  raised  his  hat, 
and  walked  on.  Mrs.  Catherick  returned  to  her 
chair,  and  looked  at  me  with  a  grimmer  sarcasm 
than  ever. 

"  There  !"  she  said.  "What  do  you  think  of 
that  for  a  woman  with  a  lost  character?  How 
does  your  speculation  look  now?" 

The  singular  manner  in  which  she  had  chosen 
to  assert  herself,  the  extraordinary  practical 
vindication  of  her  position  in  the  town  which 
she  had  just  offered,  had  so  per])lexed  me  that 
I  listened  to  her  in  silent  surprise.  I  was  not 
the  less  resolved,  however,  to  make  another  ef- 
fort to  throw  her  off  her  guard.  If  the  woman's 
fierce  temper  once  got  beyond  her  control,  and 
once  flamed  out  on  me,  she  might  yet  say  the 
words  which  would  put  the  clew  in  my  hands. 

"How  does  your  speculation  look  now?''  she 
repeated. 

"Exactly  as  it  looked  when  I  first  came  in," 
I  answered.  "I  don't  doubt  the  position  you 
have  gained  in  the  town,  and  I  don't  wish  to 
assail  it,  even  if  I  could.  I  came  here  because 
Sir  Percival  Glyde  is,  to  my  certain  knowledge, 
your  enemy  as  well  as  mine.  If  I  have  a  grudge 
against  him,  you  have  a  grudge  against  him  too. 
You  may  deny  it,  if  you  like;  you  may  distrust 
me  as  much  as  you  please ;  you  may  be  as  an- 
gry as  you  will — but,  of  all  the  women  in  En- 
gland, you,  if  you  have  any  sense  of  injury,  are 
the  woman  who  ought  to  help  me  to  crush  that 
man." 

"Crush  him  for  yourself,"  she  said;  "then 
come  back  here,  and  see  what  I  say  to  you." 

She  spoke  those  words  as  she  had  not  spoken 
yet — quickly,  fiercely,  vindictively.  I  had  stirred 
in  its  lair  the  serpent-hatred  of  years — but  only 
for  a  moment.  Like  a  lurking  reptile  it  leaped 
up  at  me,  as  she  eagerly  bent  forward  toward 
the  place  in  which  I  was  sitting.  Like  a  lurking 
reptile  it  dropped  out  of  sight  again,  as  she  in- 
stantly resumed  her  former  ]iosition  in  the  chair. 

"You  won't  trust  me?"  I  said. 

"No." 

"  You  are  afraid  ?" 

"Do  I  look  as  if  I  was?" 

"You  are  afraid  of  Sir  Percival  Glyde." 

"Am  I?" 

Her  color  was  rising,  and  her  hands  were  at 
work  again,  smoothing  her  gown.  I  pressed 
the  point  farther  and  farther  home — I  went  on, 
without  allowing  her  a  moment  of  delay. 

"  Sir  Percival  has  a  high  position  in  the 
world,"  I  said ;  "it  would  be  no  wonder  if  you 
were  afraid  of  him.  Sir  Percival  is  a  powerful 
man — a  baronet — the  possessor  of  a  fine  estate 
— the  descendant  of  a  great  family — " 

She  amazed  me  beyond  expression  by  sud- 
denly bursting  out  laughing. 

"  Yes,"  she  repeated,  in  tones  of  the  bitterest, 


steadiest  contempt.  ' '  A  baronet — the  possessor 
of  a  fine  estate — the  descendant  of  a  great  fam- 
ily. Yes,  indeed !  A  great  family — especially 
by  the  mother's  side." 

There  was  no  time  to  reflect  on  the  words 
that  had  just  escaped  her;  there  was  only  time 
to  feel  that  they  were  well  worth  thinking  over 
the  moment  I  left  the  house. 

"I  am  not  here  to  dispute  with  yon  about 
family  questions,"  I  said.  "  I  know  nothing  of 
Sir  Percival's  mother — " 

"  And  you  know  as  little  of  Sir  Percival  him- 
self," she  interposed,  sharply. 

"  I  advise  you  not  to  be  too  sure  of  that," 
I  rejoined.  "I  know  some  things  about  him, 
and  I  suspect  many  more." 

"What  do  you  suspect?" 

"I'll  tell  you  Avhat  I  doii't  suspect.  I  don't 
suspect  him  of  being  Anne's  father." 

She  started  to  her  feet,  and  came  close  up  to 
me  with  a  look  of  fury. 

"  How  dare  you  talk  to  me  about  Anne's 
father !  How  dare  you  say  who  was  her  father, 
or  who  wasn't !"  she  broke  out,  her  face  quiver- 
ing, her  voice  trembling  with  passion. 

"  The  secret  between  you  and  Sir  Percival  is 
not  that  secret,"  I  persisted.  "The  mystery 
which  darkens  Sir  Percival's  life  was  not  born 
with  your  daughter's  birth,  and  has  not  died 
with  your  daughter's  death." 

She  drew  back  a  step.  "  Go !"  she  said,  and 
pointed  sternly  to  the  door. 

"There  was  no  thought  of  the  child  in  your 
heart  or  in  his."  I  went  on,  determined  to  pi'ess 
her  back  to  her  last  defenses.  "  There  was  no 
bond  of  guilty  love  between  you  and  him  when 
you  held  those  stolen  meetings — when  your  hus- 
band found  you  whispering  together  under  the 
vestry  of  the  church." 

Her  pointing  hand  instantly  dropped  to  her 
side,  and  the  deep  flush  of  anger  faded  from  her 
face  while  I  spoke.  I  saw  the  change  pass  over 
her;  I  saw  that  hard,  firm,  fearless,  self-pos- 
sessed woman  quail  under  a  teiTor  which  her 
utmost  resolution  was  not  strong  enough  to  re- 
sist, when  I  said  those  five  last  words — "the  ves- 
try of  the  church." 

For  a  minute  or  more  we  stood  looking  at 
each  other  in  silence.     I  spoke  first. 

"  Do  you  still  refuse  to  trust  me  ?"  I  asked. 

She  could  not  call  the  color  that  had  left 
it  back  to  her  face ;  but  she  had  steadied  her 
voice,  she  had  recovered  the  defiant  self-posses- 
sion of  her  manner,  when  she  answered  me. 

"I  do  refuse,"  she  said. 

"  Do  you  still  tell  me  to  go?" 

"Yes.     Go;  and  never  come  back." 

I  walked  to  the  door,  waited  a  moment  before 
I  opened  it,  and  turned  round  to  look  at  her 
again. 

"I  may  have  news  to  bring  you  of  Sir  Per- 
cival which  vou  don't  expect,"  I  said;  "and, 
in  that  case,  I  shall  come  back." 

"There  is  no  news  of  Sir  Percival  that  1 
don't  expect,  except — " 

She  stop]>ed ;  her  pale  face  darkened  ;  and 
she  stole  back,  with  a  quiet,  stealthy,  cat-like 
step,  to  her  chair. 

"Except  the  news  of  his  death,"  she  said, 
sitting  down  again,  with  the  mockery  of  a  smile 
just  hovering  on  her  cruel  lips,  and  the  furtive 
light  of  hatred  lurking  deep  in  her  steady  eyes. 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


205 


As  I  opened  the  door  of  the  room  to  go  out 
she  looked  round  at  me  quickly.  The  cruel 
smile  slowly  widened  her  lips — she  eyed  me 
with  a  strange,  stealthy  interest  from  head  to 
foot — an  unutterable  expectation  showed  itself 
wickedly  all  over  her  face.  Was  she  specula- 
ting, in  the  secrecy  of  her  own  heart,  on  my 
youth  and  strength,  on  the  force  of  my  sense  of 
injury  and  the  limits  of  my  self-control ;  and 
was  she  considering  the  lengths  to  which  they 
might  carry  me  if  Sir  Percival  and  I  ever 
chanced  to  meet  ?  The  bare  doubt  that  it  might 
be  so  drove  me  from  her  jjresence,  and  silenced 
even  the  common  forms  of  farewell  on  my  lips. 
Without  a  word  more,  on  my  side  or  on  hers,  I 
left  the  room. 

As  I  opened  the  outer  door  I  saw  the  same 
clergyman  who  had  already  passed  the  house 
once,  about  to  pass  it  again  on  his  way  back 
through  the  square.  I  waited  on  the  door-step 
to  let  him  go  by,  and  looked  round,  as  I  did  so, 
at  the  parlor  window. 

Mrs.  Catherick  had  heard  his  footsteps  ap- 
proaching in  the  silence  of  that  lonely  place, 
and  she  was  on  her  feet  at  the  window  again, 
waiting  for  him.  Not  all  the  strength  of  all  the 
terrible  passions  I  had  roused  in  that  woman's  i 
heart  could  loosen  her  desperate  hold  on  the 
one  fragment  of  social  consideration  which  years 
of  resolute  effort  had  just  dragged  within  her 
grasp.  There  she  was  again,  not  a  minute  after 
I  had  left  her,  jjlaced  purposely  in  a  position 
which  made  it  a  matter  of  common  courtesy  on 
the  part  of  the  clergyman  to  bow  to  her  for  a 
second  time.  He  raised  his  hat  once  more.  I 
saw  the  hard,  ghastly  face  behind  the  window 
soften  and  light  up  with  gratified  pride ;  I  saw 
the  head  with  the  grim  black  cap  bend  ceremo- 
niously in  return.  The  clergyman  had  bowed 
to  her — and  in  my  presence — twice  in  one  day ! 

The  new  direction  which  my  inquiries  must 
now  take  was  plainly  presented  to  my  mind  as 
I  left  the  house.  Mrs.  Catherick  had  helped 
me  a  step  forward  in  spite  of  herself.  The  next 
stage  to  be  reached  in  the  investigation  was, 
beyond  all  doubt,  the  vestry  of  Old  Welming- 
ham  Church. 

viir. 

Before  I  had  reached  the  turning  which  led 
out  of  the  square,  my  attention  was  aroused  by 
the  sound  of  a  closing  door  in  the  row  of  houses 
behind  me.  I  looked  round  and  saw  an  under- 
sized man  in  black  on  the  door-step  of  the  house, 
which,  as  well  as  I  could  judge,  stood  next  to 
Mrs.  Catherick's  place  of  abode,  on  the  side 
nearest  to  me.  The  man  advanced  rapidly  to- 
ward the  turning  at  which  I  had  stopped.  I 
recognized  him  as  the  lawyer's  clerk  who  had 
preceded  me  in  my  visit  to  Blackwater  Park, 
and  who  had  tried  to  pick  a  quarrel  with  me 
when  I  asked  him  if  I  could  see  the  house. 

I  waited  where  I  was  to  ascertain  whether 
his  object  was  to  come  to  close  quarters  and 
speak  on  this  occasion.  To  my  surprise,  he 
passed  on  rapidly  without  saying  a  word,  with- 
out even  looking  up  in  my  face  as  he  went  by. 
This  was  such  a  complete  inversion  of  the  course 
of  proceeding  which  I  had  every  reason  to  ex- 
pect on  his  part,  that  my  curiosity,  or  rather 
my  suspicion,  was  aroused,  and  I  determined,  on 


my  side,  to  keep  him  cautiously  in  view,  and  to 
discover  what  the  business  might  be  on  which 
he  was  now  employed.  Without  caring  wheth- 
er he  saw  me  or  not,  I  walked  after  him.  He 
never  once  looked  back,  and  he  led  me  straight 
through  the  streets  to  the  railway  station. 

The  train  was  on  the  point  of  starting,  and 
two  or  three  passengers  who  were  late  were 
clustering  round  the  small  opening  through 
which  the  tickets  were  issued.  I  joined  them, 
and  distinctly  heard  the  lawyer's  clerk  demand 
a  ticket  for  the  Blackwater  station.  I  satisfied 
myself  that  he  had  actually  left  by  the  train  be- 
fore I  came  away. 

There  was  only  one  interpretation  that  I  could 
place  on  what  I  had  just  seen  and  heard.  I  had 
unquestionably  observed  the  man  leaving  a  house 
which  closely  adjoined  Mrs.  Catherick's  resi- 
dence. He  had  been  probably  placed  there,  by 
Sir  Bercival's  directions,  as  a  lodger,  in  antici- 
pation of  my  inquiries  leading  me,  sooner  or 
later,  to  comminiicate  with  Mrs.  Catherick.  He 
had,  doubtless,  seen  me  go  in  and  come  out ; 
and  he  had  hurried  away  by  the  first  train  to 
make  his  report  at  Blackwater  Park — to  which 
jtlace  Sir  Percival  would  naturally  betake  him- 
self (knowing  what  he  evidently  knew  of  my 
movements),  in  order  to  be  ready  on  the  spot  if 
I  returned  to  Hampshire.  I  saw  this  clearly; 
and  I  felt  for  the  first  time  that  the  apprehen- 
sions which  Marian  had  expressed  to  me  at 
parting  might  be  realized.  Before  many  days 
were  over  there  seemed  every  likelihood  now 
that  Sir  Percival  and  I  might  meet. 

Whatever  result  events  might  be  destined  to 
produce,  I  resolved  to  pursue  my  own  course 
straight  to  the  end  in  view,  without  stopping  or 
turning  aside  for  Sir  Percival  or  for  any  one. 
The  great  responsibility  which  weighed  on  me 
heavily  in  London  —  the  responsibility  of  so 
guiding  my  slightest  actions  as  to  prevent  them 
from  leading  accidentally  to  the  discovery  of 
Laura's  place  of  refuge — was  removed,  now  that 
I  was  in  Hampshire.  I  could  go  and  come  as  I 
pleased  at  Welraingham ;  and  if  I  chanced  to 
fail  in  observing  any  necessary  precautions,  the 
immediate  results,  at  least,  would  aifect  no  one 
but  myself. 

When  I  left  the  station  the  winter  evening 
was  beginning  to  close  in.  There  was  little 
hope  of  continuing  my  inquiries  after  dark  to 
any  useful  purpose  in  a  neighborhood  that  was 
strange  to  me.  Accordingly,  I  made  my  way 
to  the  nearest  hotel,  and  ordered  my  dinner  and 
my  bed.  This  done,  I  wrote  to  Marian,  to  tell 
her  that  I  was  safe  and  well,  and  that  I  had  fair 
prospects  of  success.  I  had  directed  her,  on 
leaving  home,  to  address  the  first  letter  slie 
wrote  to  me  (the  letter  I  expected  to  receive  the 
next  morning)  to  "The  Post-office,  Welming- 
ham  ;"  and  I  now  begged  her  to  send  her  second 
day's  letter  to  the  same  address.  I  could  easily 
receive  it  by  writing  to  the  postmaster  if  I  hap- 
pened to  be  away  from  the  town  when  it  arrived. 

The  coffee-room  of  the  hotel,  as  it  grew  late 
in  the  evening,  became  a  perfect  solitude.  I 
was  left  to  reflect  on  what  I  had  accomplished 
that  afternoon  as  uninterruptedly  as  if  the  house 
had  been  my  own.  Before  I  retired  to  rest  I 
had  attentively  thought  over  my  extraordinary 
interview  with  Mrs.  Catherick,  from  beginning 
to  end ;   and  had  verified,  at  my  leisure,  the 


20G 


THE  WOilAN  IN  WHITE. 


conclusions  which  I  had  hastily  drawn  in  the 
earlier  part  of  the  day. 

The  vestry  of  Old  Welmingham  church  was 
the  starting-point  from  which  my  mind  slowly 
worked  its  way  back  through  all  that  I  had  heard 
Mrs.  Catherick  say,  and  through  all  that  I  had 
seen  Mrs.  Catherick  do.  At  the  time  when  the 
neighborhood  of  the  vestry  was  first  referred 
to  in  my  presence  by  Mrs.  Clements,  I  had 
thought  it  the  strangest  and  most  unaccounta- 
ble of  all  places  for  Sir  Percival  to  select  for  a 
clandestine  meeting  with  the  clerk's  wife.  In- 
fluenced by  this  impression,  and  by  no  other,  I 
had  mentioned  "the  vestry  of  the  church,"  be- 
fore j\Irs.  Catherick,  on  pure  speculation — it 
represented  one  of  the  minor  peculiarities  of  the 
story,  which  occurred  to  me  while  I  was  speak- 
ing. I  was  prepared  for  her  answering  me  con- 
fusedly or  angrily,  but  the  blank  terror  that 
seized  her  when  I  said  the  words  took  me  com- 
pletely by  surprise.  I  had  long  before  asso- 
ciated Sir  Percival's  Secret  with  the  conceal- 
ment of  a  serious  crime,  which  Mrs.  Catherick 
knew  of — but  I  had  gone  no  farther  than  this. 
Now,  the  woman's  paroxysm  of  ten'or  associa- 
ted the  crime,  either  directly  or  indirectly,  with 
the  vestry,  and  convinced  me  that  she  had  been 
more  than  the  mere  witness  of  it — she  was  also 
the  accomplice,  beyond  a  doubt. 

What  had  been  the  nature  of  the  crime  ? 
Surely  there  was  a  contemptible  side  to  it  as 
well  as  a  dangerous  side — or  Mrs.  Catherick 
would  not  have  repeated  my  own  words,  refer- 
ring to  Sir  Percival's  rank  and  power,  with  such 
marked  disdain  as  she  had  certainly  displayed. 
It  was  a  contemptible  crime,  then,  and  a  dan- 
gerous crime;  and  she  had  shared  in  it,  and  it 
was  associated  with  the  vestry  of  the  church. 

The  next  consideration  to  be  disposed  of  led 
me  a  step  farther  from  tliis  point. 

Mrs.  Catherick's  undisguised  contempt  for 
Sir  Percival  plainly  extended  to  his  mother  as 
well.  She  had  referred,  with  the  bitterest  sar- 
casm, to  the  great  family  he  had  descended  from 
— "  especially  by  the  mother's  side."  What  did 
this  mean?  There  appeared  to  be  only  two 
explanations  of  it.  Either  his  mother's  birth 
had  been  low,  or  his  mother's  reputation  was 
damaged  by  some  hidden  flaw  with  which  Mrs. 
Catherick  and  Sir  Percival  were  both  privately 
acquainted?  I  could  only  put  the  first  expla- 
nation to  the  test  by  looking  at  the  register  of 
her  marriage,  and  so  ascertaining  her  maiden 
name  and  her  parentage,  as  a  preliminary  to 
further  inquiries.  On  the  other  hand,  if  the 
second  case  supposed  were  the  true  one,  what 
had  been  the  flaw  in  her  reputation  ?  Remem- 
bering the  account  which  Marian  had  given  me 
of  Sir  Percival's  father  and  mother,  and  of  the 
suspiciously  unsocial,  secluded  life  they  had  both 
led,  I  now  asked  myself  whether  it  might  not 
be  possible  that  his  motlier  had  never  been  mar- 
ried at  all.  Here  again  the  register  might,  by 
offering  written  evidence  of  tlie  marriage,  prove 
to  me,  at  any  rate,  that  this  doubt  had  no  foun- 
dation in  truth.  But  where  was  the  register  to 
be  found  ?  At  this  jioint  I  took  up  the  conclu- 
sions which  I  had  ])reviously  formed ;  and  the 
same  mental  process  which  had  discovered  tlie 
locality  of  the  concealed  crime  now  lodged  the 
register  also  in  the  vestry  of  Old  Welmingham 
church. 


These  were  the  results  of  my  interview  with 
Mrs.  Catherick — these  were  the  various  consid- 
erations, all  steadily  converging  to  one  point, 
which  decided  the  course  of  my  proceedings  on 
the  next  day. 

Tlie  morning  was  cloudy  and  lowering,  but 
no  rain  fell.  I  left  my  bag  at  the  hotel,  to 
wait  there  till  I  called  for  it ;  and  after  inquir- 
ing the  way,  set  forth  on  foot  for  Old  Welming- 
ham church. 

It  was  a  walk  of  rather  more  than  two  miles, 
the  ground  rising  slowly  all  the  way.  On  the 
highest  point  stood  the  church — an  ancient, 
weather-beaten  building,  with  heavy  buttresses 
at  its  sides,  and  a  clumsy  square  tower  in  front. 
The  vestr}',  at  the  back,  was  built  out  from  the 
church,  and  seemed  to  be  of  the  same  age. — 
Kound  the  building,  at  intervals,  appeared  the 
remains  of  the  village  which  Mrs.  Clements  had 
described  to  me  as  lier  husband's  place  of  abode 
in  former  years,  and  which  the  principal  inhab- 
itants had  long  since  deserted  for  the  new  town. 
Some  of  the  empty  houses  had  been  dismantled 
to  their  outer  walls  ;  some  had  been  left  to  de- 
cay with  time  ;  and  some  were  still  inhabited  by 
persons  evidently  of  the  poorest  class.  It  was  a 
dreary  scene ;  and  yet,  in  the  worst  aspect  of 
its  ruin,  not  so  dreary  as  the  modern  town  that 
I  had  just  left.  Here  there  was  the  brown, 
breezy  sweep  of  surrounding  fields  for  the  eye 
to  repose  on  ;  here  the  trees,  leafless  as  they 
were,  still  varied  the  monotony  of  the  prospect, 
and  helped  the  mind  to  look  forward  to  summer 
time  and  shade. 

As  I  moved  away  from  the  back  of  the  church 
and  passed  some  of  the  dismantled  cottages  in 
search  of  a  ])crson  wlio  might  direct  me  to  the 
clerk,  I  saw  two  men  saunter  out  after  me  from 
behind  a  wall.  The  tallest  of  the  two — a  stout 
muscular  man,  in  the  dress  of  a  game-keeper — 
was  a  stranger  to  me.  The  other  was  one  of 
the  men  who  had  followed  me  in  London  on 
the  day  when  I  left  Mr.  Kyrle's  oflSce.  I  had 
taken  particular  notice  of  him  at  the  tune,  and 
I  felt  sure  that  I  was  not  mistaken  in  identify- 
ing the  fellow  on  this  occasion.  Neither  he  nor 
his  companion  attempted  to  speak  to  me,  and 
both  kept  themselves  at  a  respectful  distance ; 
but  the  motive  of  their  presence  in  the  neigh- 
borhood of  the  church  was  plainly  apparent.  It 
was  exactly  as  I  had  supposed — Sir  Percival 
was  already  prepared  for  me.  My  visit  to  Mrs. 
Catherick  had  been  reported  to  him  the  even- 
ing before,  and  those  two  men  at  my  heels  had 
been  placed  on  the  look-out  near  the  church  in 
anticipation  of  my  apjiearance  at  Old  Welming- 
ham. If  I  had  wanted  any  further  proof  that 
my  investigations  had  taken  the  right  direction 
at  last,  the  plan  now  adopted  for  watching  me 
would  liave  supplied  it. 

I  walked  on,  away  from  the  church,  till  I 
reached  one  of  the  inhabited  houses,  witha  patch 
of  kitchen  garden  attached  to  it,  on  which  a 
laborer  was  at  work.  He  directed  me  to  the 
clerk's  abode — a  cottage  at  some  little  distance 
off',  standing  by  itself  on  the  outskirts  of  the  for- 
saken village.  The  clerk  was  in-doors,  and  was 
just  putting  on  his  great-coat.  He  was  a  cheer- 
ful, familiar,  loudly-talkative  old  man,  with  a 
very  poor  opinion  (as  I  soon  discovered)  of  the 
])lace  in  which  he  lived,  and  a  happy  sense  of 


THE  WOIVIAN  IN  WHITE. 


207 


superiority  to  his  neighbors  in  virtue  of  the  great 
personal  distinction  of  having  once  been  in  Lon- 
don. 

"  It's  well  you  came  so  early,  Sir,"  said  the 
old  man,  when  I  had  mentioned  the  object  of 
my  visit.  "I  should  liave  been  away  in  ten 
minutes  more.  Parish  business,  Sir,  and  a  good- 
ish  long  trot  before  it's  all  done,  for  a  man  at 
my  age.  But,  bless  you,  I'm  strong  on  my  legs 
still !  As  long  as  a  man  don't  give  at  his  legs, 
there's  a  deal  of  work  left  in  him.  Don't  you 
think  so  yourself.  Sir  ?" 

He  took  liis  keys  down  while  he  was  talking 
from  a  hook  behind  tlie  fire-place,  and  locked 
his  cottage  door  liehind  us. 

"Nobody  at  home  to  keep  house  for  me," 
said  the  clerk,  nith  a  cheerful  sense  of  perfect 
freedom  from  all  family  encumbrances.  "]My 
wife's  in  the  church-yard  there,  and  my  cliil- 
dren  are  all  married.  A  wretched  place  tliis, 
isn't  it.  Sir?  But  the  parish  is  a  large  one — 
every  man  couldn't  get  througli  the  business  as 
I  do.  It's  learning  does  it;  and  I've  had  my 
share,  and  a  little  more.  I  can  talk  tlie  Queen's 
English  (God  bless  the  Queen !) — and  that's 
more  than  most  of  the  people  about  here  can  do. 
You're  from  London,  I  suppose,  Sir?  I've  been 
in  London  a  matter  of  fivc-and-twenty  years 
ago.    What's  the  news  there  now,  if  you  please  ?" 

Chattering  on  in  this  way  he  led  me  back  to 
the  vestry.  I  looked  about  to  see  if  the  two 
spies  were  still  in  sight.  They  were  not  visible 
any  where.  After  having  discovered  my  appli- 
cation to  the  clerk,  they  had  probably  concealed 
themselves  where  they  could  watch  my  next 
proceedings  in  perfect  freedom. 

The  vestry  door  was  of  stout  old  oak,  studded 
with  nails;  and  the  clerk  put  his  heavy  key  in 
the  lock  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  knew  that 
he  had  a  ditficulty  to  encounter,  and  who  was 
not  quite  certain  of  creditably  conquering  it. 

"  I'm  obliged  to  bring  you  this  way,  Sir,"  he 
said,  "  because  the  door  from  the  vestry  to  the 
church  is  bolted  on  the  vestry  side.  We  might 
have  got  in  through  the  cburcli  otherwise.  This 
is  a  perverse  lock,  if  ever  there  was  one  yet. 
It's  big  enough  for  a  prison  door ;  it's  been  ham- 
pered over  and  over  again ;  and  it  ought  to  be 
changed  for  a  new  one.  I've  mentioned  that  to 
the  church-warden  fifty  times  over  at  least :  he's 
always  saying  '  I'll  see  about  it' — and  he  never 
does  see.  Ah,  it's  a  sort  of  lost  corner,  this 
place.  Not  like  London — is  it.  Sir?  Bless 
you,  we  are  all  asleep  here!  We  don't  march 
with  the  times." 

After  some  twisting  and  turning  of  the  key  the 
heavy  lock  yielded,  and  he  opened  the  door. 

The  vestry  was  larger  than  I  should  have  sup- 
posed it  to  be,  judging  from  the  outside  only. 
It  was  a  dim,  mouldy,  melancholy  old  room, 
with  a  low,  raftered  ceiling.  Round  two  sides 
of  it,  the  sides  nearest  to  the  interior  of  the 
church,  ran  heavy  wooden  presses,  worm-eaten 
and  gaping  with  age.  Hooked  to  the  inner  cor- 
ner of  one  of  these  presses  hung  several  surpli- 
ces, all  bulging  out  at  their  lower  ends  in  an 
irreverent-looking  bundle  of  limp  draper}',  and 
wanting  nothing  but  legs  under  them  to  suggest 
the  idea  of  a  cluster  of  neglected  curates  who 
had  committed  suicide  by  conipanionably  hang- 
ing themselves  all  together.  Below  the  surpli- 
ces, on  the  floor,  stood  three  packing-cases,  with 


the  lids  half  oiF,  half  on.  and  the  straw  jirofuse- 
ly  bursting  out  of  their  cracks  and  crevices  in 
every  direction.  Behind  them,  in  a  corner,  was 
a  litter  of  dusty  papers  ;  some  large  and  rolled 
up  like  architects'  plans ;  some  loosely  strung 
together  on  files,  like  bills  or  letters.  The  room 
had  once  been  lighted  by  a  small  side  window; 
but  this  had  been  bricked  tip,  and  a  lantern 
sky-light  was  now  substituted  for  it.  The  at- 
mosphere of  the  place  was  heavy  and  mouldy; 
being  rendered  additionally  oppressive  by  the 
closing  of  the  door  which  led  into  the  church. 
This  door  also  was  composed  of  solid  oak,  and 
was  bolted  at  top  and  bottom  on  the  vestry  side. 

"We  might  be  tidier,  mightn't  we.  Sir?"  said 
the  cheerful  clerk.  "But  when  you're  in  a  lost 
corner  of  a  place  like  this,  what  are  you  to  do  ? 
Why,  look  here  now — -just  look  at  these  pack- 
ing-cases. There  they've  been  for  a  year  or 
more  ready  to  go  to  London — there  they  are, 
littering  the  place,  and  there  they'll  stop  as 
long  as  the  nails  hold  them  together.  I'll  tell 
you  what.  Sir,  as  I  said  before,  this  is  not  Lon- 
don. We  are  all  asleep  here.  Bless  you,  we 
don't  march  with  the  times!" 

"What  is  there  in  the  packing-cases?"  I  asked. 

"Bits  of  old  wood  carvings  from  the  pulpit, 
and  jjanels  from  the  chancel,  and  images  from 
the  organ-loft,"  said  the  clerk.  "Portraits  of 
the  Twelve  Apostles  in  wood — and  not  a  whole 
nose  among  'em.  All  broken,  and  worm-eaten, 
and  crumbling  to  dust  at  the  edges — as  brittle 
as  crockery,  Sir,  and  as  old  as  the  church,  if  not 
older." 

"And  why  were  they  going  to  London?  To 
be  repaired  ?"' 

"  That's  it,  Sir.  To  be  repaired ;  and  where 
they  were  past  repair,  to  be  copied  in  sound 
wood.  But,  bless  you,  the  money  fell  short ; 
and  there  they  are,  waiting  for  new  subscrip- 
tions, and  nobody  to  subscribe.  It  was  all  done 
a  year  ago.  Sir.  Six  gentlemen  dined  together 
about  it  at  the  hotel  in  the  new  town.  They 
made  speeches,  and  passed  resolutions,  and  put 
their  names  down,  and  jirinted  off  thousands  of 
prospectuses.  Beautiful  prospectuses,  Sir,  all 
flourished  over  with  Gothic  devices  in  red  ink, 
saying  it  was  a  disgrace  not  to  restore  the 
church  and  repair  the  famous  carvings,  and  so 
on.  There  are  the  prospectuses  that  couldn't 
be  distributed,  and  the  architect's  plans  and 
estimates,  and  the  whole  correspondence  which 
set  every  body  at  loggerheads  and  ended  in  a 
dispute,  all  down  together  in  that  corner  be- 
hind the  packing-cases.  The  money  dribbled 
in  a  little  at  first ;  but  what  can  you  expect  out 
of  London  ?  There  was  just  enough,  yoti  know, 
to  pack  the  broken  carvings,  and  get  the  esti- 
mates, and  pay  the  printer's  bill,  and  after  that 
there  wasn't  a  halfpenny  left.  There  the  things 
are,  as  I  said  before.  We  have  nowhere  else 
to  put  them — nobody  in  the  new  town  cares 
about  accommodating  us — we're  in  a  lost  cor- 
ner— and  this  is  an  untidy  vestry ;  and  who's  to 
help  it  ? — that's  what  I  want  to  know." 

jNIy  anxiety  to  examine  the  register  did  not 
dispose  me  to  offer  much  encouragement  to  the 
old  man's  talkativeness.  I  agreed  with  him  that 
nobody  could  help  the  untidiness  of  the  vestry, 
and  then  suggested  that  we  should  proceed  to 
our  business  without  more  delay. 

"A}',  ay,  the  marriage  register,  to  be  sure," 


208 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


said  the  clerk,  taking  a  little  bunch  of  keys  from 
his  pocket.  "How  far  do  you  want  to  look 
back,  Sir?" 

Marian  had  informed  me  of  Sir  Percival's 
a^e  at  the  time  when  we  had  spoken  together  of 
his  marriage  engagement  with  Laura.  She  had 
then  described  him  as  being  forty-five  years  old. 
Calculating  back  from  this,  and  making  due  al- 
lowance for  the  year  that  had  passed  since  I  had 
gained  my  information,  I  found  that  he  must 
have  been  born  in  eighteen  hundred  and  four, 
and  that  I  might  safely  start  on  my  search 
through  the  register  from  that  date. 

"I  want  to  begin  with  the  year  eighteen  hun- 
dred and  four,"  I  said. 

"Which  way  after  that,  Sir?"  asked  the 
clerk.  "Forward  to  our  time,  or  backward 
away  from  us  ?" 

"Backward  from  eighteen  hundred  and 
four." 

He  opened  the  door  of  one  of  the  presses — 
the  press  from  the  side  of  which  the  surplices 
were  hanging — and  produced  a  large  volume 
bound  in  greasy  brown  leather.  I  was  struck 
by  the  insecurity  of  the  place  in  which  the  reg- 
ister was  kept.  The  door  of  the  press  was  warp- 
ed and  cracked  with  age,  and  the  lock  was  of 
the  smallest  and  commonest  kind.  I  could  have 
forced  it  easily  with  the  walking-stick  I  carried 
in  my  hand. 

"  Is  that  considered  a  sufficiently  secure  place 
for  the  register?"  I  inquired.  "Surely  a  book 
of  such  importance  as  this  ought  to  be  protected 
by  a  better  lock,  and  kept  carefully  in  an  iron 
safe  ?" 

"  Well,  now,  that's  curious  !"  said  the  clerk, 
shutting  up  the  book  again  just  after  he  had 
opened  it,  and  smacking  his  hand  cheerfully  on 
the  cover.  "  Tiiose  Avere  the  very  words  my  old 
master  was  always  saying,  years  and  years  ago, 
when  I  was  a  "lad.  'Why  isn't  the  register' 
(meaning  this  register  here  under  my  hand) — 
"why  isn't  it  kept  in  an  iron  safe?'  If  I've 
heard  him  say  that  once,  I've  heard  him  say  it  a 
hundred  times.  He  was  the  solicitor,  in  those 
days,  Sir,  who  had  the  appointment  of  vestry 
clerk  to  this  church.  A  fine  hearty  old  gentle- 
man, and  the  most  particular  man  breathing. 
As  long  as  he  lived  he  kept  a  copy  of  this  book 
in  his  othce  at  Knowlesburj',  and  had  it  posted 
up  regular,  from  time  to  time,  to  correspond 
with  the  fresh  entries  here.  You  would  hardly 
think  it,  but  he  had  his  own  appointed  days, 
once  or  twice  in  every  quarter,  for  riding  over 
to  this  church  on  his  old  white  pony  to  check 
the  copy,  by  the  register,  with  his  own  eyes  and 
hands.  '  How  do  I  know'  (he  used  to  say) — 
'  how  do  I  know  that  the  register  in  this  vestry 
may  not  be  stolen  or  destroyed?  Why  isn't  it 
kept  in  an  iron  safe  ?  Why  can't  I  make  other 
people  as  careful  as  I  am  myself?  Some  of 
these  days  there  will  be  an  accident  happen ; 
and  when  the  register's  lost,  then  the  parish 
will  find  out  the  value  of  my  co])y.'  He  used 
to  take  his  pinch  of  snuft'  after  that,  and  look 
about  him  as  bold  as  a  lord.  Ah !  the  like  of 
him  for  doing  business  isn't  easy  to  find  now. 
You  may  go  to  London,  and  not  match  him 
even  i/ici-e.  Which  year  did  you  say.  Sir? 
Eighteen  hundred  and  what?" 

"  Eighteen  hundred  and  four,"  I  rejilied  ; 
mentally  resolving  to  give  the  old  man  no  more 


opportunities  of  talking  until  my  examination 
of  the  register  was  over. 

The  clerk  put  on  his  spectacles  and  turned 
over  the  leaves  of  the  register,  carefully  wet- 
ting his  finger  and  thumb  at  every  third  page. 
"There  it  is,  Sir,"  he  said,  with  another  cheer- 
ful smack  on  the  oj^en  volume.  "  There's  the 
year  you  want." 

As  I  was  ignorant  of  the  month  in  which  Sir 
Percival  was  born,  I  began  my  backward  search 
with  the  early  part  of  the  year.  The  register- 
book  was  of  the  old-fashioned  kind  ;  the  entries 
being  all  made  on  blank  pages,  in  manuscript, 
and  the  divisions  which  separated  them  being 
indicated  by  ink  lines  drawn  across  the  page  at 
the  close  of  each  entrj^. 

I  reached  the  beginning  of  the  year  eighteen 
hundred  and  four  without  encountering  the 
marriage  ;  and  then  traveled  back  through  De- 
cember, eighteen  hundred  and  thi'ee;  through 

November  and  October;   through No!   not 

through  September  also.     Under  the  heading 
of  that  month  in  the  year  I  found  the  marriage ! 

I  looked  carefully  at  the  entry.  It  was  at 
the  bottom  of  a  page,  and  was,  for  want  of 
room,  compressed  into  a  smaller  space  than 
that  occupied  by  the  marriages  above.  The 
marriage  immediateh'  before  it  was  impressed 
on  my  attention  by  the  circumstance  of  the 
bridegroom's  Christian  name  being  the  same  as 
my  own.  The  entry  immediately  following  it 
(on  the  top  of  the  next  page)  was  noticeable,  in 
another  May,  from  the  large  space  it  occupied  ; 
the  record,  in  this  case,  registering  the  mar- 
riages of  two  brothers  at  the  same  time.  The 
register  of  the  marriage  of  Sir  Felix  Clyde  was 
in  no  respect  remarkable,  except  for  the  nar- 
rowness of  the  space  into  which  it  was  com- 
pressed at  the  bottom  of  the  page.  The  infor- 
mation about  his  wife  was  the  usual  informa- 
tion given  in  such  cases.  She  was  described  as 
"Cecilia  Jane  Elster,  of  Park-View  Cottages, 
Knowlesbury  ;  only  daughter  of  the  late  Patrick 
Elster,  Esq.,  formerly  of  Bath." 

I  noted  down  these  particulars  in  my  pocket- 
book,  feeling,  as  I  did  so,  both  doubtful  and  dis- 
heartened about  my  next  proceedings.  The 
Secret,  which  I  had  believed,  until  this  moment, 
to  be  within  my  grasp,  seemed  now  farther  from 
my  reach  than  ever.  What  suggestions  of  any 
mystery  unexplained  had  arisen  out  of  my  visit 
to  the  vestry  ?  I  saw  no  suggestions  any  where. 
What  progress-  had  I  made  toward  discovering 
the  suspected  stain  on  the  reputation  of  Sir 
Percival's  mother?  The  one  fact  I  had  ascer- 
tained vindicated  her  reputation.  Fresh  doubts, 
fresh  difficulties,  fresh  delays,  began  to  open 
before  me  in  interminable  prospect.  What  was 
I  to  do  next?  The  one  immediate  resource 
left  to  me  api)eared  to  be  this :  I  might  insti- 
tute inquiries  about  "  Miss  Elster,  of  Knowles- 
bury," on  the  chance  of  advancing  toward  the 
main  object  of  my  investigation,  by  first  discov- 
ering the  secret  of  Mrs.  Cathcrick's  contempt 
for  Sir  Percival's  mother. 

"Have  you  found  what  you  wanted.  Sir?" 
said  the  clerk,  as  I  closed  the  register-book. 

"Yes,"  I  replied;  "but  I  have  some  inquiries 
still  to  make.  I  supjiose  the  clergyman  who 
officiated  here  in  the  year  eighteen  hundred 
and  three  is  no  longer  alive?" 

"No,   no,   Sir;  ho  was  dead  three  or  four 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


201) 


/ 


/  . 


J</,M' 


!  I  U  l"' " 


..nfe-^':-: 


•WHICH    YKAR    DID   YOU    SAT,    SIR?" 


years  liefore  I  came  hei'e — and  that  was  as  long 
ajTo  as  the  year  twenty-seven.  I  got  this  ]jlace, 
Sir,"  persisted  my  talkative  old  friend,  "  through 
the  clerk  bei'ore  me  leaving  it.  Tliey  say  he 
was  driven  ont  of  house  and  home  by  his  wife 
— and  she's  living  still,  down  in  the  new  town 
there.  I  don't  know  the  rights  of  the  story  my- 
self;  all  I  know  is,  I  got  the  place.  Mr.  Wans- 
borough  got  it  for  me — the  son  of  my  old  mas- 
ter that  I  was  telling  you  of.  He's  a  free,  pleas- 
ant gentleman  as  ever  lived ;  rides  to  the 
hounds,  keeps  his  pointers,  and  all  that.  He's 
vestry-clerk  here  now,  as  his  father  was  before 
him."" 

"Did  you  not  tell  me  your  former  master 
lived  at  Knowlesbui-y  ?"  I  asked,  calling  to  mind 
the  long  story  about  the  precise  gentleman  of  the 
old  school  with  which  my  talkative  friend  had 
wearied  me  before  he  opened  the  register-book. 

"Yes,  to  be  sure,  Sii","  replied  the  clerk. 
"Old  Mr.  Wansborough  lived  at  Knowlesbury; 
and  young  Mr.  Wansborough  lives  there  too." 

"You  said  just  now  he  was  vestry-clerk,  like 
his  father  before  him.  I  am  not  quite  sure  that 
I  know  what  a  vestry-clerk  is." 

"Don't  yon  indeed.  Sir? — and  you  come  from 
London  too !  Every  parish  church,  you  know, 
has  a  vcstrv-clerk  and  a  parish-clerk.  The 
O 


]iarish-clerk  is  a  man  like  me  (except  that  I've 
got  a  deal  more  learning  than  most  of  them — 
though  I  don't  boast  of  it).  The  vestry-clerk  is 
a  sort  of  an  appointment  that  the  lawyers  get; 
and  if  there's  any  business  to  be  done  for  the 
vestry,  why  there  they  are  to  do  it.  It's  just  the 
same  in  London.  Every  parish  church  there 
has  got  its  vestry-clerk — and,  you  may  take  my 
word  for  it,  he's  sure  to  be  a  lawyer." 

"  Then  young  Mr.  Wansborough  is  a  lawyer, 
I  suppose?" 

"Of  course  he  is.  Sir!  A  lawyer  in  High 
Street,  Knowlesburj- — the  old  offices  that  his 
father  had  before  him.  The  number  of  times 
I've  swept  those  offices  out,  and  seen  the  old 
gentleman  come  trotting  in  to  business  on  his 
white  pony,  looking  right  and  left  all  down  the 
street,  and  nodding  to  every  body !  Bless  you, 
he  was  a  popular  character ! — he'd  have  done 
in  London !" 

"How  far  is  it  to  Knowlesbury  from  this 
place  ?" 

"A  long  stretch,  Sir,"  said  the  clerk,  with 
that  exaggerated  idea  of  distances  and  that 
vivid  perception  of  difficulties  in  getting  from 
place  to  place  which  is  peculiar  to  all  country- 
people.     "  Nigh  on  five  mile,  I  can  tell  you !" 

It  was  still  early  in  the  forenoon.    There  was 


210 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


-^1^^^^^:!^^^:::^^ 


plenty  of  time  for  a  walk  to  Knowlesbmy  and 
back  again  to  Welmingham  ;  and  there  was  no 
person  probably  in  the  town  who  was  fitter  to 
assist  my  inquiries  about  the  character  and  po- 
sition of  Sir  Percival's  mother,  before  her  mai- 
riage,  than  the  local  solicitor.  Resolving  to  go 
at  once  to  Knowlesbury  on  foot,  I  led  the  way 
out  of  the  vestry. 

"Thank  you  "kindly,  Sir,"  said  the  clerk,  as  I 
slipped  my  little  jiresent  into  his  hand.  "Are 
you  really  going  to  walk  all  the  way  to  Knowles- 
bury and  back?  Well!  you're  strong  on  your 
legs,  too — and  what  a  blessing  that  is,  isn't  it  ? 
Tliere's  the  road ;  you  can't  miss  it.  I  wish  I 
was  going  your  way — it's  pleasant  to  meet  with 
gentlemen  from  London  in  a  lost  comer  like 
this !  One  hears  the  news.  Wish  you  good- 
morning.  Sir!  and  thank  you  kindly,  once  more." 

We  ))arted.  As  I  left  the  church  behind  me 
1  looked  back,  and  there  were  the  two  men 
again,  on  the  road  below,  with  a  third  in  their 
com]iany  ;  that  third  person  being  the  short  man 
in  black  whom  I  had  traced  to  the  railway  the 
evening  before. 

The  three  stood  talking  together  for  a  little 
while — then  separated.  The  man  in  black  went 
away  by  himself  toward  Welmingham;  the 
other  two  remained  together,  evidently  waiting 
to  follow  me  as  soon  as  I  walked  on. 

I  proceeded  on  my  way,  without  letting  the 
fellows  see  that  I  took  any  special  notice  of 
them.  They  caused  me  no" conscious  irritation 
of  feeling  at  that  moment;  on  the  contrary, 
they  rather  revived  my  sinking  lioi)es.  In  the 
surprise  of  discovering  the  evidence  of  the  mar- 


riage I  had  forgotten  the  inference  I  had  drawn 
on  first  perceiving  the  men  in  the  neighborhood 
of  the  vestry.  Their  reappearance  reminded 
me  that  Sir  Tercival  had  anticipated  my  visit  to 
Old  Welmingham  church,  as  the  next  result  of 
my  interview  with  Mrs.  Catherick — otherwise  he 
M'ould  never  have  placed  his  spies  there  to  wait 
for  me.  Smoothly  and  fairly  as  appearances 
looked  in  the  vestry,  there  was  something  wrong 
beneath  them — there  was  something  in  the  reg- 
ister-book, for  aught  I  knew,  that  I  had  not  dis- 
covered yet. 

"I  shall  come  back,"  I  thought  to  myself,  as 
I  turned  for  a  farewell  look  at  the  tower  of  the 
old  church.  "  I  siiall  trouble  the  cheerful  clerk 
a  second  time  to  conquer  the  perverse  lock,  and 
to  open  the  vestry  door." 

IX. 

Once  out  of  sight  of  the  church,  I  pressed  for- 
ward briskly  on  my  way  to  Knowlesbury. 

The  road  was  for  the  most  part  straight  and 
level.  Whenever  I  looked  back  over  it  I  saw 
the  two  spies  steadily  following  me.  For  the 
greater  part  of  the  way  they  kept  at  a  safe  dis- 
tance behind.  But  once  or  twice  they  quick- 
ened their  pace,  as  if  with  the  purpose  of  over- 
taking me — then  stopped — consulted  together 
— and  fell  back  again  to  their  former  position. 
They  had  some  special  object  evidently  in  view, 
and  they  seemed  to  be  hesitating  or  diftering 
about  the  best  means  of  accomplishing  it.  I 
could  not  guess  exactly  what  their  design  might 
be,  but  I  felt  serious  doubts  of  reaching  Knowles- 
bury without  some  mischance  happening  to  me 
on  the  way.     Those  doubts  were  realized. 

I  had  just  entered  on  a  lonely  part  of  the 
road,  with  a  sharp  turn  at  some  distance  ahead, 
and  had  just  concluded  (calculating  by  time) 
that  I  must  now  be  getting  near  to  the  town, 
when  I  suddenly  heard  the  steps  of  the  men 
close  behind  me. 

Before  I  could  look  round  one  of  them  (the 
man  by  whom  I  had  been  followed  in  London) 
passed  rapidly  on  my  left  side,  and  hustled  me 
with  his  shoulder.  I  had  been  more  irritated 
by  the  manner  in  which  he  and  his  companion 
had  dogged  my  steps  all  the  way  from  Old  Wel- 
mingham than  I  was  myself  aware  of,  and  I 
unfortunately  pushed  the  fellow  away  smartly 
with  my  open  hand.  He  instantly  shouted  for 
help.  His  companion — the  tall  man  in  the 
game-keeper's  clothes — sprang  to  my  right  side, 
and  the  next  moment  the  two  scoundrels  held 
me  pinioned  between  them  in  the  middle  of  the 
road. 

The  conviction  that  a  trap  had  been  laid  for 
me,  and  the  vexation  of  knowing  that  1  had 
fallen  into  it,  fortunately  restrained  me  from 
making  my  position  still  worse  by  an  unavail- 
ing struggle  with  two  men — one  of  whom  would 
in  all  probability  have  been  more  than  a  match 
for  me  single-handed.  I  rejiressed  the  first  natu- 
ral movement  by  which  I  had  attemjtted  to  shake 
them  ott",  anil  looked  about  to  see  if  there  was 
any  person  near  to  whom  I  could  appeal. 

A  laborer  was  at  work  in  an  adjoining  field 
who  must  have  witnessed  all  that  had  passed. 
I  called  to  him  to  follow  us  to  the  town.  He 
sliook  his  head  with  stolid  obstinacy,  and  walk- 
ed away  in  the  direction  of  a  cottage  which 
stood  back  from  tiic  high  road.     At  the  same 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


211 


time  the  men  who  held  me  between  them  de- 
clared their  intention  of  charging  me  with  an 
assanlt.  I  was  cool  enongh  and  wise  enough 
now  to  make  no  opposition.  "  Drop  your  hold 
of  my  arms,"  I  said,  "and  I  will  go  with  you 
.  to  the  town."  The  man  in  the  game-keeper's 
dress  roughly  refused.  But  the  shorter  man 
was  sharp  enough  to  look  to  consequences,  and 
not  to  let  his  companion  commit  himself  by 
unnecessary  violence.  He  made  a  sign  to  the 
other,  and  I  walked  on  between  them  with  my 
anns  free. 

We  reached  the  turning  in  tlie  road,  and 
there,  close  before  us,  were  the  suburbs  of 
Knowlesbury.  One  of  the  local  policemen  was 
walking  along  the  path  by  the  road-side.  The 
men  at  once  appealed  to  him.  He  replied  that 
the  magistrate  was  then  sitting  at  the  town-hall, 
and  recommended  that  we  should  appear  before 
him  immediately. 

We  went  on  to  the  town-hall.  The  clerk 
made  out  a  formal  summons,  and  the  charge 
was  preferred  against  me  Avith  the  customary 
exaggeration  and  the  customary  perversion  of 
the  truth  on  such  occasions.  The  magistrate 
(an  ill-tempered  man,  with  a  sour  enjoyment  in 
the  exercise  of  his  own  power)  inquired  if  any 
one  on  or  near  the  road  had  witnessed  the  as- 
sault; and,  greatly  to  my  surprise,  the  com- 
plainant admitted  the  presence  of  the  laborer 
in  the  field.  I  was  enlightened,  however,  as  to 
the  object  of  the  admission  by  the  magistrate's 
next  words.  He  remanded  me  at  once  for  the 
production  of  the  witness,  expressing  at  the 
same  time  his  willingness  to  take  bail  for  my 
rea])pearance  if  I  could  produce  one  responsible 
surety  to  offer  it.  If  I  had  been  known  in  the 
town  he  would  have  liberated  me  on  my  own 
recognizances;  but,  as  I  was  a  total  stranger,  it 
was  necessary  that  I  should  find  responsible  bail. 

The  whole  object  of  the  stratagem  was  now 
disclosed  to  me.  It  had  been  so  managed  as  to 
make  a  remand  necessary  in  a  town  where  I  was 
a  perfect  stranger,  and  where  I  could  not  hope 
to  get  my  liberty  on  bail.  The  remand  merely 
extended  over  three  days,  until  the  next  sitting 
of  the  magistrate.  But  in  that  time,  while  I 
was  in  confinement.  Sir  Percival  might  use  any 
means  he  pleased  to  embarrass  my  future  pro- 
ceedings— perhaps  to  screen  himself  from  detec- 
tion altogether — without  the  slightest  fear  of 
any  hinderance  on  my  part.  At  the  end  of  the 
three  days  the  charge  would,  no  doubt,  be  with- 
drawn, and  the  attendance  of  the  witness  would 
be  perfectly  useless. 

My  indignation,  I  may  almost  say  my  de- 
spair, at  this  mischievous  check  to  all  further 
progress — so  base  and  trifling  in  itself,  and  yet 
so  disheartening  and  so  serious  in  its  probable 
results — quite  unfitted  me  at  first  to  reflect  on 
the  best  means  of  extricating  myself  from  the 
dilemma  in  which  I  now  stood.  I  had  the  folly 
to  call  for  writing  materials,  and  to  think  of 
privately  communicating  my  real  position  to  the 
magistrate.  The  hopelessness  and  the  impru- 
dence of  this  pi'oceeding  failed  to  strike  me  be- 
fore I  had  actually  written  the  opening  lines  of 
the  letter.  It  was  not  till  I  had  pushed  the 
paper  away — not  till,  I  am  ashamed  to  say,  I 
had  almost  allowed  the  vexation  of  my  heijiless 
position  to  conquer  me — that  a  course  of  action 
suddenly  occurred  to  my  mind,  which  Sir  I'er- 


cival  had  probably  not  anticipated,  and  which 
might  set  me  free  again  in  a  few  hours.  I  de- 
termined to  communicate  the  situation  in  which 
I  was  placed  to  Mv.  Dawson,  of  Oak  Lodge. 

I  had  visited  this  gentleman's  house,  it  may 
be  rememljcred,  at  the  time  of  my  first  inquiries 
in  the  Blackwater  Park  neighborhood  ;  and  I 
had  presented  to  him  a  letter  of  introduction 
from  Miss  Halcombe,  in  which  she  recommend- 
ed me  to  his  friendly  attention  in  the  strongest 
terms.  I  now  wrote,  referring  to  this  letter, 
and  to  what  I  had  ]ireviously  told  Mr.  Dawson 
of  the  delicate  and  dangerous  nature  of  my  in- 
quiries. I  had  not  revealed  to  him  the  truth 
about  Laura ;  having  merely  described  my  er- 
rand as  being  of  the  utmost  importance  to  pri- 
vate family  interests  with  which  IMiss  Halcombe 
was  concerned.  Using  the  same  caution  still,  I 
now  accounted  for  my  presence  at  Knowlesbury 
in  the  same  manner — and  I  put  it  to  the  doctor 
to  say  whether  the  trust  reposed  in  me  by  a 
lady  whom  he  well  knew,  and  the  hospitality  I 
had  myself  received  in  his  house,  justified  me 
or  not  in  asking  him  to  come  to  my  assistance 
in  a  place  where  I  was  quite  friendless. 

I  obtained  permission  to  hire  a  messenger  to 
drive  away  at  once  with  my  letter  in  a  convey- 
ance which  might  be  used  to  bring  the  doctor 
back  immediately.  Oak  Lodge  was  on  the 
Knowlesbury  side  of  Blackwater.  The  man  de- 
clared he  could  drive  there  in  forty  minutes, 
and  could  bring  Mr.  Dawson  back  in  forty  more. 
I  directed  him  to  follow  the  doctor  wherever  he 
might  happen  to  be,  if  he  was  not  at  home — 
and  then  sat  down  to  wait  for  the  result  with 
all  the  patience  and  all  the  hope  that  I  could 
summon  to  hel])  me. 

It  was  not  quite  half  past  one  when  the  mes- 
senger departed.  Before  half  past  three  he 
returned  and  brought  the  doctor  with  him. 
Mr.  Dawson's  kindness,  and  the  delicacy  with 
which  he  treated  his  prompt  assistance  quite 
as  a  matter  of  course,  almost  overpowered  me. 
The  bail  required  was  ottered  and  accepted  im- 
mediately. Before  four  o'clock  on  that  after- 
noon I  was  shaking  hands  warmly  with  the  good 
old  doctor — a  free  man  again — in  the  streets  of 
Knowlesbury. 

Mr.  Dawson  hospitably  invited  me  to  go  back 
with  him  to  Oak  Lodge  and  take  up  my  quar- 
ters there  for  the  night.  I  could  only  reply  that 
my  time  was  not  my  own ;  I  could  only  ask  him 
to  let  me  pay  my  visit  in  a  few  days,  when  I 
might  repeat  my  thanks,  and  oft'er  to  him  all  the 
explanations  which  I  felt  to  be  only  his  due,  but 
which  I  was  not  then  in  a  position  to  make.  We 
parted  with  friendly  assurances  on  both  sides ; 
and  I  turned  my  steps  at  once  to  Mr.  Wansbor- 
ough's  office  in  the  High  Street. 

Time  was  now  of  the  last  importance.  The 
news  of  my  being  free  on  bail  would  reach  Sir 
Percival  to  an  absolute  certainty  before  night. 
If  the  next  few  hours  did  not  put  me  in  a  posi- 
tion to  justify  his  worst  fears,  and  to  hold  him 
helpless  at  my  mercy,  I  might  lose  every  inch 
of  the  ground  I  had  gained  never  to  recover  it 
again.  The  unscrupulous  nature  of  the  man, 
the  local  influence  he  possessed,  the  desperate 
peril  of  exposure  with  which  my  blindfold  in- 
quiries threatened  him — all  warned  me  to  press 
on  to  positive  discovery  without  the  useless 
waste  of  a  single  minute.     I  had  found  time  to 


212 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


think  while  I  was  waitinp;  for  Mr.  Dawson's  ar- 
rival, and  I  had  well  employed  it.  Certain  por- 
tions of  the  conversation  of  the  talkative  old 
clerk,  which  had  wearied  me  at  the  time,  now 
recurred  to  my  memory  with  a  new  significance ; 
and  a  suspicion  crossed  my  mind  darkly,  which 
had  not  occurred  to  me  while  I  was  in  the  vestry. 
On  my  way  to  Knowlesbury  I  had  only  pi'oposed 
to  apply  to  Mr.  Wansborough  for  information 
on  the  subject  of  Sir  Percival's  mother.  My 
object  now  was  to  examine  the  duplicate  register 
of  Old  Welmingham  Church. 

Mr.  Wansborough  was  in  his  office  when  I  in- 
quired for  him. 

He  was  a  jovial,  red-faced,  easy-looking  man 
— more  like  a  country  squire  than  a  lawyer — 
and  he  seemed  to  be  both  surprised  and  amused 
by  my  application.  He  had  heard  of  his  father's 
copy  of  the  register,  but  had  not  even  seen  it 
himself.  It  had  never  been  inquired  after ;  and 
it  was  no  doubt  in  the  strong-room  among  other 
old  papers  that  had  not  been  disturbed  since  his 
father's  death.  It  was  a  pity  (Mr.  Wansborough 
said)  that  the  old  gentleman  was  not  alive  to 
hear  his  precious  copy  asked  for  at  last.  He 
would  have  ridden  his  favorite  hobby  harder 
than  ever  now.  How  had  I  come  to  hear  of  the 
copy?  was  it  through  any  body  in  the  town? 

I  parried  the  question  as  well  as  I  could.  It 
was  impossible  at  this  stage  of  the  investigation 
to  be  too  cautious ;  and  it  was  just  as  well  not 
to  let  Mr.  Wansborough  know  prematurely  that 
I  had  already  examined  the  original  register. 
I  described  myself,  therefore,  as  pursuing  a 
family  inquirv,  to  the  object  of  which  every  pos- 
sible saving  of  time  was  of  great  importance.  I 
was  anxious  to  send  certain  particulars  to  Lon- 
don by  that  day's  post ;  and  one  look  at  the 
duplicate  register  (paying,  of  course,  the  neces- 
sary fees)  might  supply  what  I  required,  and 
save  me  a  further  journey  to  Old  Welmingham. 
I  added  that,  in  the  event  of  my  subsequently  re- 
quiring a  copy  of  the  original  register,  I  should 
make  application  to  Mr.  Wansborough's  office 
to  furnish  me  with  the  document. 

After  this  explanation  no  objection  was  made 
to  producing  the  copy.  A  clerk  was  sent  to  the 
strong-room,  and  after  some  delay  returned  with 
the  volume.  It  was  of  exactly  the  same  size  as 
the  volume  in  the  vestry — the  only  difference 
being  that  the  copy  was  more  smartly  bound. 
I  took  it  with  me  to  an  unoccupied  desk.  My 
luinds  were  trembling — my  head  was  burning 
hot — I  felt  the  necessity  of  concealing  my  agita- 
tion as  well  as  I  could  from  the  ])ersons  about 
me  in  the  room  before  I  ventured  on  opening 
the  book. 

On  the  blank  page  at  the  beginning,  to  which 
I  first  turned,  were  traced  some  lines  in  faded 
ink.     They  contained  these  words : 

"  Copy  of  the  Marriage  Register  of  Welming- 
ham Parish  Church.  Executed  under  my  or- 
ders ;  and  afterward  compared,  entry  by  entry, 
with  the  original  by  myself.  (Signed)  Robert 
Wansborough,  Vestry-clerk."  I5elow  this  note 
there  was  a  line  added  in  another  handwriting, 
as  follows:  "Extending  from  the  first  of  Janu- 
ary, 1800,  to  the  tliirtieth  of  June,  1815." 

I  turned  to  tlie  month  of  Sciitember,  eighteen 
hundred  and  three.  I  found  the  marriage  of 
the  man  whose  Christian  name  was  the  same  as 
mv  own.    I  found  the  double  register  of  the  mar- 


riages of  the  two  brothers.    And  between  these 
entries  at  the  bottom  of  the  page —  ? 

Nothing !  Not  a  vestige  of  the  entry  which  re- 
corded the  marriage  of  Sir  Felix  Glyde  and  Ce- 
cilia Jane  Elster,  in  the  register  of  the  church  ! 

My  heart  gave  a  great  bound,  and  throbbed 
as  if  it  would  stifle  me.  I  looked  again — I  was 
afraid  to  believe  the  evidence  of  my  own  eyes. 
No  !  not  a  doubt.  The  marriage  was  not  there. 
The  entries  on  the  copy  occupied  exactly  the 
same  places  on  the  page  as  the  entries  in  the 
original.  The  last  entry  on  one  page  recorded 
the  marriage  of  the  man  with  my  Christian 
name.  Below  it  there  was  a  blank  space  —  a 
space  evidently  left  because  it  was  too  narrow 
to  contain  the  entry  of  the  marriages  of  the  two 
brothers,  which  in  the  copy,  as  in  the  original, 
occupied  the  top  of  the  next  page.  That  space 
told  the  whole  story !  There  it  must  have  re- 
mained, in  the  church  register,  from  eighteen 
hundred  and  three  (when  the  marriages  had 
been  solemnized  and  the  copy  had  been  made) 
to  eighteen  hundred  and  twenty-seven,  when 
Sir  Percival  appeared  at  Old  Welmingham. 
Here,  at  Knowlesbury,  was  the  chance  of  com- 
mitting the  forgery,  shown  to  me  in  the  copy — 
and  there,  at  Old  Welmingham,  was  the  forgery 
committed,  in  the  register  of  the  church  ! 

My  head  turned  giddy  ;  I  held  by  the  desk  to 
keep  myself  from  falling.  Of  all  the  suspicions 
which  had  struck  me  in  relation  to  that  despe- 
rate man,  not  one  had  been  near  the  truth.  The 
idea  that  he  was  not  Sir  Percival  Glyde  at  all, 
that  he  had  no  more  claim  to  the  baronetcy  and 
to  Blackwater  Park  than  the  pooi-est  laborer  who 
worked  on  the  estate,  had  never  once  occurred  to 
my  mind.  At  one  time  I  had  thought  he  might 
be  Anne  Catherick's  father;  at  another  time 
I  had  thought  he  might  have  been  Anne  Cath- 
erick's husband — of  the  offense  of  which  he  was 
really  guilty  had  been,  from  first  to  last,  beyond 
the  widest  reach  of  my  imagination.  The  paltry 
means  by  which  the  fraud  had  been  effected, 
the  magnitude  and  daring  of  the  crime  that  it 
represented,  the  horror  of  the  consequences  in- 
volved in  its  discover)^  overwhelmed  me.  Who 
could  wonder  now  at  the  brute-restlessness  of  • 
the  wretch's  life  ;  at  his  desperate  alternations 
between  abject  duplicity  and  reckless  violence ; 
at  the  madness  of  guilty  distrust  which  had  made 
him  imprison  Anne  Catherick  in  the  Asylum, 
and  had  given  him  over  to  the  vile  conspiracy 
against  his  wife,  on  the  bare  suspicion  that  the 
one  and  the  other  knew  his  terrible  secret? 
The  disclosure  of  that  secret  might,  in  past 
years,  have  hanged  him — might  now  transport 
iiim  for  life.  The  disclosure  of  that  secret,  even 
if  the  sufferers  by  his  deception  spared  him  the 
penalties  of  the  law,  would  dejirive  him  at  one 
blow  of  the  name,  the  rank,  the  estate,  the  whole 
social  existence  that  he  had  usurped.  This  was 
the  Secret,  and  it  was  mine !  A  word  from  me, 
and  house,  lands,  baronetcy,  were  gone  from 
him  forever  —  a  word  from  me,  and  he  was 
driven  out  into  the  world  a  nameless,  penniless, 
friendless  outcast !  The  man's  whole  future 
hung  on  my  li])s — and  he  knew  it  by  this  time 
as  certainly  as  I  did  ! 

That  last  thought  steadied  me.  Interests  far 
more  precious  than  my  own  dei)ended  on  the 
caution  which  must  now  guide  my  slightest  ac- 
tions.    There  was  no  possible  treachery  Avhich 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


!13 


Sir  Percival  might  not  attempt  against  me.  In 
tiie  danger  and  desiieration  of  his  position  he 
would  be  staggered  by  no  risks,  he  would  recoil 
at  no  crime — he  would  literally  hesitate  at  no- 
thing to  save  himself. 

I  considered  for  a  minute.  My  first  necessity 
was  to  secure  positive  evidence,  in  writing,  of 
the  discovery  that  I  had  just  made,  and,  in  the 
event  of  any  personal  misadventure  happening 
to  me,  to  place  that  evidence  beyond  ISir  Per- 
cival's  reach.  The  copy  of  the  register  was  sure 
to  be  safe  in  Mr.  Wansborough's  strong-room. 
But  the  position  of  the  original,  in  the  vestry, 
was,  as  I  had  seen  with  my  own  eyes,  any  thing 
but  secure. 

In  this  emergency  I  resolved  to  return  to  the 
church,  to  apply  again  to  the  clerk,  and  to  take 
the  necessary  exti'act  from  the  register  before 
I  slept  that  night.  I  was  not  then  aware  that 
a  legally-certitied  copy  was  necessary,  and  that 
no  document  merely  drawn  out  by  myself  could 
claim  the  proper  importance,  as  a  proof.  I  was 
not  awai'e  of  this ;  and  my  determination  to 
keep  my  present  proceedings  a  secret  prevented 
me  from  asking  any  questions  which  might  have 
])rocured  the  necessary  information.  My  one 
anxiety  was  the  anxiety  to  get  back  to  Old  Wel- 
mingham.  I  made  the  best  excuses  I  could  for 
the  discomposure  in  my  face  and  nuinner,  which 
Mr.  Wansborough  had  already  noticed ;  laid  the 
necessary  fee  on  his  table;  arranged  that  I 
should  write  to  him  in  a  day  or  two ;  and  left 
the  office,  with  my  head  in  a  whirl,  and  my 
blood  throbbing  through  my  veins  at  fever  heat. 

It  was  just  getting  dark.  The  idea  occurred 
to  me  that  I  might  be  followed  again,  and  at- 
tacked on  the  high  road. 

My  walking-stick  was  a  light  one,  of  little 
or  no  use  for  purposes  of  defense.  I  stopped, 
before  leaving  Knowlesbury,  and  bought  a  stout 
country  cudgel,  short,  and  heavy  at  the  head. 
With  this  homely  weapon,  if  any  one  man  tried 
to  stop  me,  I  was  a  match  for  him.  If  more 
than  one  attacked  me,  I  could  trust  to  my  heels. 
In  my  school-days  I  had  been  a  noted  runner ; 
and  I  had  not  wanted  for  practice  since,  in  the 
later  time  of  my  experience  in  Central  America. 

I  started  from  the  town  at  a  brisk  pace,  and 
kept  the  middle  of  the  road.  A  small  misty 
rain  was  falling ;  and  it  was  impossible,  for  the 
first  half  of  the  way,  to  make  sure  whether  I 
was  followed  or  not.  But  at  the  last  half  of  my 
journey,  when  I  supposed  myself  to  be  about 
two  miles  from  the  church,  I  saw  a  man  run  by 
me  in  the  rain,  and  then  heard  the  gate  of  a 
field  by  the  road-side  shut  to,  sharply.  I  kept 
straight  on,  with  my  cudgel  ready  in  my  hand, 
my  ears  on  the  alert,  and  my  eyes  straining  to 
see  through  the  mist  and  the  darkness.  Before 
I  had  advanced  a  hundred  yards  there  was  a 
rustling  in  the  hedge  on  my  right  hand,  and 
three  men  sprang  out  into  the  road. 

I  drew  aside  on  the  instant  to  the  foot-path. 
The  two  foremost  men  were  carried  beyond  me 
before  they  could  check  themselves.  The  third 
was  as  quick  as  lightning.  He  stopped — half 
turned — and  struck  at  me  witli  his  stick.  The 
blow  was  aimed  at  hazard,  and  was  not  a  severe 
one.  It  fell  on  my  left  shoulder.  I  returned  it 
heavily  on  his  head.  He  staggered  back,  and 
jostled  his  two  companions,  just  as  they  were 
both  rushing  at  mo.    This  circumstance  gave 


me  a  moment's  start.  I  slipped  by  them,  and 
took  to  the  middle  of  the  road  again,  at  the  top 
of  my  speed. 

The  two  unhurt  men  pursued  me.  They  were 
both  good  runners,  the  road  was  smooth  and 
level,  and  for  the  first  five  minutes  or  more  I 
was  conscious  that  1  did  not  gain  on  them.  It 
was  perilous  work  to  run  for  long  in  the  dark- 
ness. I  could  barely  see  the  dim  black  line  of 
the  hedges  on  either  side  ;  and  any  chance  ob- 
stacle in  the  road  would  have  thrown  me  down 
to  a  certainty.  Ere  long  I  felt  the  ground 
changing:  it  descended  from  the  level,  at  a  turn, 
and  then  rose  again  beyond.  Down-hill  the  men 
rather  gained  on  me ;  but  up-hill  I  began  to  dis- 
tance them.  The  rajiid,  regular  thump  of  their 
feet  grew  fainter  on  my  ear,  and  I  calculated 
by  the  sound  that  I  Avas  far  enough  in  advance 
to  take  to  the  fields,  with  a  good  chance  of  their 
passing  me  in  the  darkness.  Diverging  to  the 
foot-i)ath,  I  made  for  the  first  break  that  I  could 
guess  at,  rather  than  see,  in  the  hedge.  It 
proved  to  be  a  closed  gate.  I  vaulted  over,  and 
finding  myself  in  a  field,  kept  across  it  steadily, 
with  my  back  to  the  road.  I  heard  the  men 
pass  the  gate,  still  running — then,  in  a  minute 
more,  heard  one  of  them  call  to  the  other  to 
come  back.  It  was  no  matter  what  they  did 
now;  I  was  out  of  their  sight  and  out  of  their 
hearing.  I  kept  straight  across  the  field,  and, 
when  I  had  reached  the  further  extremity  of  it, 
waited  there  for  a  minute  to  recover  my  breath. 

It  was  impossible  to  venture  back  to  the  road ; 
but  I  was  determined,  nevertheless,  to  get  to 
Old  Welmingham  that  evening. 

Neither  moon  nor  stars  ajipeared  to  guide 
me.  I  only  knew  that  I  had  kept  the  wind  and 
rain  at  my  back  on  leaving  Knowlesbm-y — and 
if  I  now  kept  them  at  my  back  still,  I  might  at 
least  be  certain  of  not  advancing  altogether  in 
the  wrong  direction.  Proceeding  on  this  plan, 
I  crossed  the  country — meeting  with  no  worse 
obstacles  than  hedges,  ditches,  and  thickets, 
which  every  now  and  then  obliged  me  to  alter 
my  course  for  a  little  while — until  I  found  my- 
self on  a  hill-side,  with  the  ground  sloping 
away  steeply  before  me.  I  descended  to  the 
bottom  of  the  hollow,  squeezed  my  way  through 
a  hedge,  and  got  out  into  a  lane.  Having 
turned  to  the  right  on  leaving  the  road,  I  now 
turned  to  the  left  on  the  chance  of  returning 
to  the  line  from  which  I  had  wandered.  After 
following  the  muddy  windings  of  the  lane  for 
ten  minutes  or  more,  I  saw  a  cottage  with  a 
light  in  one  of  the  windows.  The  garden  gate 
was  open  to  the  lane,  and  I  went  in  at  once  to 
inquire  my  way. 

Before  I  could  knock  at  the  door  it  was  sud- 
denly opened,  and  a  man  came  running  out 
with  a  lighted  lantern  in  his  hand.  He  stopped 
and  held  it  up  at  the  sight  of  me.  We  both 
started  as  we  saw  each  other.  ]\Iy  wanderings 
had  led  me  round  the  outskirts  of  the  village, 
and  had  brought  me  out  at  the  lower  end  of  it. 
I  was  back  at  Old  Welmingham  ;  and  the  man 
with  the  lantern  was  no  other  than  my  acquaint- 
ance of  the  morning,  the  pjarish  clerk. 

His  manner  appeared  to  have  altered  strange- 
ly in  the  interval  since  I  had  last  seen  him. 
He  looked  suspicious  and  confused  ;  his  ruddy 
cheeks  were  deeply  flushed ;  and  his  first  words, 
when  he  spoke,  were  quite  unintelligible  to  me. 


2U 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


"Where  are  the  keys?"  he  said.  "Have 
you  taken  them?" 

"What  keys?"  I  asked.  "I  have  only  this 
moment  come  from  Knowlesbury.  What  keys 
do  you  mean?" 

"  The  keys  of  the  vestry.  Lord  save  us  and 
help  us !  what  shall  I  do  ?  The  keys  are  gone ! 
Do  you  hear?"  cried  the  old  man,  shaking  the 
lantern  at  me  in  his  agitation ;  "  the  keys  are 
gone !" 

"How?  When?  Who  can  have  taken  them?" 
"I  don't  know,"  said  the  clerk,  staring  about 
him  wildly  in  the  darkness.  "I've  only  just 
got  back.  I  told  you  I  had  a  long  day's  work 
this  morning — I  locked  the  door  and  shut  the 
window  down  —  it's  open  now,  the  window's 
open.  Look!  somebody  has  got  in  there  and 
taken  the  keys." 

He  turned  to  tlie  casement-window  to  show 
me  that  it  was  wide  open.  The  door  of  the 
lantern  came  loose  from  its  fastening  as  he 
swayed  it  round,  and  the  wind  blew  the  candle 
out  instantly. 

"Get  another  light,"  I  said,  "and  let  ns 
both  go  to  the  vestry  together.  Quick !  quick !" 
I  hurried  him  into  the  liouse.  The  treachery 
that  I  had  every  reason  to  expect,  tiie  treachery 
tliat  miglit  deprive  me  of  every  advantage  I  had 
gained,  was  at  that  moment  perhaps  in  process 
of  accomplishment.  My  impatience  to  reach 
the  church  was  so  great  that  I  could  not  remain 
inactive  in  the  cottage  wliile  the  clerk  lit  the 
lantern  again.  I  walked  out,  down  the  garden 
path,  into  the  lane. 

Before  I  had  advanced  ten  paces  a  man  ap- 
proached me  from  the  direction  leading  to  the 
church.  He  spoke  respectfully  as  we  met.  I 
could  not  see  his  face;  but  judging  by  his  voice 
only,  he  was  a  perfect  stranger  to  me. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Sir  Percival — "  he  be- 

I  stopped  him  before  he  could  say  more. 

"The  darkness  misleads  you,"  I  said.  "I 
am  not  Sir  Percival." 

The  man  drew  back  directly. 

"I  thought  it  was  my  master,"  he  muttered, 
in  a  confused,  doubtful  way. 

"You  expected  to  meet  your  master  here?'' 

"  I  was  told  to  \vait  in  the  lane." 

With  that  answer  he  retraced  his  steps.  I 
looked  back  at  tlie  cottage,  and  saw  the  clerk 
coming  out  with  tlie  lantern  lighted  once  more. 
I  took  the  old  man's  arm  to  Iielp  him  on  the 
more  quickly.  We  hastened  along  the  lane,  and 
passed  the  person  who  had  accosted  me.  As 
well  as  I  could  see  by  the  liglit  of  the  lantern, 
he  was  a  servant  out  of  livery. 

"Who's  that?"  whispered  the  clerk.  "Does 
he  know  any  thing  about  the  keys?" 

"  Wc  won't  wait  to  ask  him,"  I  replied. 
"We  will  go  on  to  the  vestry  first." 

The  church  was  not  visible,  even  by  daytime, 
until  tlie  end  of  the  lane  was  reached.  As  we 
mounted  the  rising  ground  which  led  to  the 
building  from  that  ])oint,  one  of  the  village  chil- 
dren— a  boy — came  close  up  to  us,  attracted  by 
the  light  we  carried,  and  recognized  tlie  clerk. 

"I  say,  measter,"  said  the  boy,  pulling  offi- 
ciotisly  at  the  clerk's  coat,  "there  be  summun 
up  yandcr  in  the  church.  I  liecrd  un  lock  the 
door  on  hissclf — I  hecrd  un  strike  a  loiglit  wi' 
a  match." 


The  clerk  trembled,  and  leaned  against  mc 
heavily. 

"Come!  come!"  Isaid,  encouraginglj-.  "We 
are  not  too  late.  We  will  catch  the  man,  who- 
ever he  is.  Keep  the  lantern,  and  follow  me  as 
fast  as  you  can.' ' 

I  mounted  the  hill  rapidly.  The  dark  mass 
of  the  church-tower  was  the  first  object  I  dis- 
cerned dimly  against  the  night  sky.  As  I  turned 
aside  to  get  round  to  the  vestry,  I  heard  heavy 
footstejis  close  to  me.  The  servant  had  ascend- 
ed to  the  church  after  us.  "  I  don't  mean  any 
harm,"  he  said,  when  I  turned  round  on  him ; 
"I'm  only  looking  for  my  master."  The  tones 
in  which  he  spoke  betrayed  unmistakable  fear. 
I  took  no  notice  of  him,  and  went  on. 

The  instant  I  turned  the  corner  and  came  in 
view  of  the  vestry  I  saw  the  lantern-skylight  on 
the  roof  brilliantly  lit  uj)  from  within.  It  shone 
out  with  dazzling  brightness  against  the  murky, 
starless  sky. 

I  hurried  through  the  church-yard  to  the 
door. 

As  I  got  near  there  was  a  strange  smell  steal- 
ing out  on  the  dainj)  night  air.  I  heard  a  snap- 
])iiig  noise  inside — I  saw  the  light  above  grow 
brighter  and  brighter  —  a  jiane  of  the  glass 
cracked — I  ran  to  the  door  and  put  my  hand  on 
it.     Tlie  vestry  was  on  fire ! 

Before  I  could  move — before  I  could  draw  my 
breath  after  that  discovery — I  was  horror-struck 
by  a  heavy  thump  against  the  door  from  the  in- 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


21i 


side.  I  heard  the  key  worked  violently  in  the 
lock — I  heard  a  man's  voice,  behind  the  door, 
raised  to  a  dreadful  shrillness,  screaming  for 
help. 

The  servant,  who  had  followed  me,  stajTgered 
Lack  shuddering,  and  dropped  on  his  knees. 
"Oh,  my  God!"^  he  said,  "it's  Sir  rercivai:" 

As  the  words  passed  his  lips  the  clerk  joined 
us,  and  at  tlie  same  moment  there  was  an- 
other, and  a  last,  grating  turn  of  the  key  in  the 
lock. 

"The  Lord  have  mercy  on  his  soul!"  said 
the  old  man.  "He  is  doomed  and  dead.  He 
has  hampered  the  lock." 

I  ruslicd  to  the  door.  The  one  absorbing 
purpose  that  had  filled  all  my  thoughts,  that  had 
controlled  all  my  actions,  for  weeks  and  weeks 
past,  vanished  in  an  instant  from  my  mind. 
All  remembrance  of  the  heartless  injury  the 
man's  crimes  had  inflicted ;  of  the  love,  the 
innocence,  the  hap])iness  he  had  pitilessly  laid 
waste ;  of  the  oath  1  had  sworn  in  my  own 
heart  to  summon  him  to  the  terrible  reckoning 
that  he  deserved — jjassed  from  my  memory  like 
a  dream.  I  remembered  nothing  but  the  hor- 
ror of  his  situation.  I  felt  nothing  but  the  nat- 
ural human  impulse  to  save  him  from  a  fright- 
ful death. 

"Try  the  other  door !"  I  shouted.  "Try  the 
door  into  the  church !  The  lock's  hampered. 
You're  a  dead  man  if  you  waste  another  mo- 
ment ou  it!" 

There  had  been  no  renewed  cry  for  help  wlien 
the  key  was  turned  for  the  last  time.  There 
was  no  sound  now  of  any  kind  to  give  token 
that  he  was  still  alive.  I  lieard  nothing  but  the 
quickening  crackle  of  the  flames  and  the  sharp 
snap  of  the  glass  in  the  sky-light  above. 

I  looked  round  at  my  two  companions.  The 
servant  had  risen  to  his  feet :  he  had  taken  the 
lantern  and  was  holding  it  up  vacantly  at  the 
door.  Terror  seemed  to  have  struck  him  with 
downright  idiocy — he  waited  at  my  heels,  he 
followed  me  about  when  I  moved  like  a  dog. 
The  clerk  sat  crouched  up  on  one  of  the  tomb- 
stones, shivering  and  moaning  to  himself.  The 
one  moment  in  which  I  looked  at  them  was 
enough  to  show  me  that  they  were  both  help- 
less. 

Hardly  knowing  what  I  did,  acting  desperate- 
ly on  tlie  first  imjiulse  that  occurred  to  me,  I 
seized  the  servant  and  ]iuslied  liim  against  the 
vestry  wall.  "Stoo])!"  I  said,  "and  hold  by 
the  stones.  I  am  going  to  climb  over  you  to  the 
roof — I  am  going  to  break  the  sky-liglit  and  give 
him  some  air!"  The  man  trembled  from  head 
to  foot,  biit  he  held  firm.  I  got  on  his  back 
with  my  cudgel  in  my  mouth,  seized  the  parapet 
with  botli  hands,  and  was  instantly  on  tlie  roof. 
In  the  frantic  hurry  and  agitation  of  the  mo- 
ment it  never  struck  me  that  I  might  let  out 
the  flame  instead  of  letting  in  the  air.  I  struck 
at  the  sky-light,  and  battered  in  the  cracked, 
loosened  glass  at  a  blow.  The  fire  leaped  out 
like  a  wild  beast  from  its  lair.  If  the  wind  had 
not  chanced,  in  the  jiosition  I  occujiied,  to  set  it 
away  from  me,  my  exertions  miglit  have  ended 
then  and  tliere.  I  crouched  on  the  roof  as  the 
smoke  jioured  out  above  me  with  the  flame. 
The  gleams  and  flashes  of  the  light  showed  me 
the  servant's  face  staring  up  vacantly  under  the 
Mall ;  the  clerk  risen  to  his  feet  on  the  tomb- 


stone, wringing  his  hands  in  despair;  and  the 
scanty  population  of  tiie  village,  haggard  men 
and  terrified  women,  clustered  beyond  in  the 
church-yard — all  appearing  and  disappearing, 
in  the  red  of  the  dreadful  glare,  in  the  black  of 
the  choking  smoke.  And  the  man  beneath  my 
feet! — the  man,  suflTocating,  burning,  dying  so 
near  us  all,  so  utterly  beyond  our  reach ! 

The  thought  half  maddened  me.  I  lowered 
myself  from  the  roof  by  my  hands  and  dropped 
to  the  ground. 

"The  key  of  the  church!"  I  shouted  to  the 
clerk.  "We  must  try  it  that  way — we  may 
save  him  yet  if  we  can  burst  open  the  inner 
door." 

"No,  no,  no!"  cried  the  old  man.  "No 
hope!  the  church  key  and  the  vestry  key  are  on 
the  same  ring — both  inside  there !  Oh,  Sir,  he's 
past  saving — he's  dust  and  ashes  by  this  time !" 

"  They'll  see  the  fire  from  the  town,"  said  a 
voice  from  among  the  men  behind  me.  "  There's 
a  ingine  in  the  town.     They'll  save  the  church." 

I  called  to  that  man — he  had  his  wits  about 
him — I  called  to  him  to  come  and  speak  to  me. 
It  would  be  a  quarter  of  an  hour  at  least  before 
the  town  engine  could  reach  us.  The  horror  of 
remaining  inactive  all  that  time  was  more  than  I 
could  face.  In  defiance  of  my  own  reason  I  per- 
suaded myself  that  the  doomed  and  lost  wretch 
in  the  vestry  might  still  be  lying  senseless  on 
the  floor,  might  not  be  dead  yet.  If  we  broke 
open  the  door,  might  we  save  him  ?  I  knew  the 
strength  of  the  heavy  lock — I  knew  the  thick- 
ness of  the  nailed  oak — I  knew  the  hopelessness 
of  assailing  the  one  and  the  other  by  ordinaiy 
means.  But  surely  there  were  beams  still  left 
in  the  dismantled  cottages  near  the  church  ? 
What  if  we  got  one  and  used  it  as  a  battering- 
ram  against  the  door? 

The  thought  leaped  through  me  like  the  fire 
lea]  ling  out  of  the  shattered  sky -light.  I  ap- 
jiealed  to  the  man  who  had  spoken  flrst  of  the 
flre-engine  in  the  town.  "  Have  you  got  your 
pickaxes  handy  ?"  Yes,  they  had.  "  And  a 
hatchet,  and  a  saw,  and  a  bit  of  rope?"  Yes! 
yes  !  yes !  I  ran  down  among  the  villagers  with 
the  lantern  in  my  hand, 
to  every  man  who   helps 

into  life  at  the  words.  That  ravenous  second 
hunger  of  poverty  —  the  hunger  for  money  — 
roused  them  into  tumult  and  activity  in  a  mo- 
ment. "Two  of  you  for  more  lanterns,  if  you 
have  them!  Two  of  you  for  the  ])ickaxes  and 
the  tools !  The  rest  after  me  to  find  the  beam !" 
They  cheered — with  shrill  starveling  voices  they 
cheered.  The  women  and  the  children  fled 
back  on  either  side.  We  rushed  in  a  body 
down  the  church-yard  path  to  the  first  empty 
cottage.  Not  a  man  was  left  behind  but  the 
clerk — the  poor  old  clerk  standing  on  the  flat 
tombstone  sobbing  and  wailing  over  the  church. 
The  servant  was  still  at  my  heels,  his  white, 
helpless,  panic-stricken  face  was  close  over  my 
shoulder  as  we  pushed  into  the  cottage.  There 
were  rafters  from  the  torn-down  floor  above  ly- 
ing loose  on  the  ground,  but  they  were  too 
light.  A  beam  ran  across  over  our  heads,  but 
not  out  of  reach  of  our  arms  and  our  jiickaxes 
— a  beam  fast  at  each  end  in  the  ruined  wall, 
with  ceiling  and  flooring  all  ripped  away,  and 
a  great  ga])  in  the  roof  above  ojien  to  the  sky. 
We  attacked  the  beam  at  both  ends  at  once. 


'  Five  shillings  apiece 
me!"     They  started 


21G 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


AT  THE   VESTKY   DOOR. 


Go'l !  how  it  held — how  the  brick  and  mortar  of 
the  wall  resisted  us !  AVe  struck,  and  tugged, 
and  tore.  The  beam  gave  at  one  end — it  came 
down  with  a  lump  of  brick-work  after  it.  There 
was  a  scream  from  the  women  all  huddled  in 
the  door-way  to  look  at  us — a  shout  from  the 
men — two  of  them  down,  but  not  hurt.  An- 
other tug  all  together,  and  tlie  beam  was  loose 
at  both  ends.  We  raised  it,  and  gave  the  word  to 
clear  the  door-way.  Now  for  the  work !  now  for 
the  rush  at  the  door !  There  is  the  fire  stream- 
ing into  the  sky,  streaming  brighter  than  ever 
to  light  us  !  Steady  along  the  church-yard  path 
— steady  with  the  beam  for  a  rush  at  the  door. 
One,  two,  three — and  off.  Out  rings  the  cheer- 
ing again,  irrepressibly.  We  have  shaken  it  al- 
ready; the  hinges  must  give  if  the  lock  won't. 
Another  run  with  the  beam !  One,  two,  three 
— and  off.  It's  loose  !  The  stealthy  fire  darts 
at  us  through  tlie  crevice  all  round  it.  Anoth- 
er and  a  last  rush !  The  door  falls  in  with  a 
crash.  A  great  hush  of  awe,  a  stillness  of 
breathless  expectation  possesses  every  living 
soul  of  us.  We  look  for  tlie  body.  The  scorch- 
ing heat  on  our  faces  drives  us  back:  we  see 
nothing — above,  below,  all  through  the  room, 
we  see  nothing  but  a  slicct  of  living  fire. 


and  oh.  Sirs,  the 


"Where  is  he?"  whispered  the  servant,  star- 
ing vacantly  at  the  flames. 

"  He's  dust  and  ashes,"  said  the  clerk.    "And 
the  books  are  dust  and  ashes 
church  will  be  dust  and  ashes  soon !' 

Those  were  the  only  two  who  spoke.  When 
they  were  silent  again  nothing  stirred  in  the  still- 
ness but  the  bubble  and  the  crackle  of  the  flames. 

Hark! 

A  harsh  rattling  sound  in  the  distance — then 
the  hollow  beat  of  horses'  hoofs  at  full  gallop — 
then  the  low  roar,  the  all-predominant  tumult 
of  hundreds  of  human  voices  clamoring  and 
shouting  together.     The  engine  at  last! 

The  people  about  mo  all  turned  from  the  fire 
and  ran  eagerly  to  the  brow  of  the  hill.  The 
old  clerk  tried  to  go  with  the  rest;  but  his 
strength  was  exhausted.  I  saw  him  holding  by 
one  of  the  tombstones.  "  Save  the  church !" 
he  cried  out,  faintly,  as  if  the  fircm,en  could 
hear  him  already.     "  Save  the  church  !" 

The  only  man  who  never  moved  was  the  serv- 
ant. There  he  stood,  his  eyes  still  fastened 
on  the  flames,  in  a  changeles,?,  vacant  stare.  I 
spoke  to  him,  I  shook  him  by  the  arm.  He  was 
])ast  ronsin-j;.  He  onlv  whispered  once  more, 
"Where  is  ho?" 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


217 


In  ten  minutes  the  engine  was  in  position ; 
the  well  at  the  back  of  the  church  was  feeding 
it,  and  the  hose  was  carried  to  the  door-way  of 
the  vestry.  If  help  had  been  wanted  from  me 
I  could  not  have  afforded  it  now.  My  energy 
of  will  was  gone — my  strength  was  exhausted — 
tlie  turmoil  of  my  thoughts  was  fearfully  and 
suddenly  stilled,  now  I  knew  that  he  was  dead. 
I  stood  useless  and  helpless — looking,  looking, 
looking  into  the  burning  room. 

I  saw  the  fire  slowly  conquered.  The  bright- 
ness of  the  glare  faded — the  steam  rose  in  white 
clouds,  and  the  smouldering  heaps  of  embers 
showed  red  and  black  through  it  on  the  floor. 
There  was  a  pause — then  an  advance  altogeth- 
er of  the  firemen  and  the  p«lice,  which  blocked 
up  the  door-way — then  a  consultation  in  low 
voices — and  then  two  men  were  detached  from 
the  rest,  and  sent  out  of  the  church-yard  through 
the  crowd.  The  crowd  drew  back  on  either  side, 
in  dead  silence,  to  let  them  pass. 

After  a  while  a  great  shudder  ran  through 
the  people,  and  the  living  lane  widened  slowly. 
The  men  came  back  along  it,  with  a  door  from 
one  of  the  empty  houses.  Tliey  carried  it  to  the 
vestry,  and  went  in.  The  police  closed  again 
round  the  door- way ;  and  men  stole  out  from 
among  the  crowd  by  twos  and  threes,  and  stood 
behind  them,  to  be  the  first  to  see.  Others 
Avaited  near,  to  be  the  first  to  hear.  Women 
were  among  these  last — women  with  children 
in  their  arms. 

The  tidings  from  the  vestry  began  to  flow  out 
among  the  crowd — they  dropped  slowly  from 
mouth  to  mouth,  till  they  reached  the  place 
where  I  was  standing.  I  heard  the  questions 
and  answers  repeated  again  and  again,  in  low, 
eager  tones,  all  round  me.  "Have  thev  found 
him?"  "  Yes."— "  Where  ?"  "Against  the 
door;  on  his  face."— "  Which  door>"  -'The 
door  that  goes  into  the  church.  His  head  was 
against  it.  He  was  down  on  his  face." — "Is 
his  face  biu-ned  ?"  "No."  "Yes,  it  is."  "No: 
scorched,  not  burned.  He  lay  on  his  face,  I 
tell  you." — "  Who  was  he?  A  lord,  they  say." 
"  No,  not  a  lord.  Sir  Something ;  Sir  means 
Knight."  "And  Baronight,  too."  "No." 
"Yes,' it  does." — "What  did  he  want  in  there?" 
"  No  good,  you  rriay  depend  on  it." — "  Did  he 
do  it  on  purpose?"  "Burn  himself  on  pm-pose!" 
— "  I  don't  mean  himself;  I  mean  the  vestry." 
—"Is  he  dreadful  to  look  at?"  "Dreadful!" 
— "Not  about  the  face,  though?"  "No,  no; 
not  so  much  about  the  face." — "  Don't  any  body 
know  him?"  '"There's  a  man  says  he  does." — 
"Who?"  "A  servant,  they  say.  But  he's 
struck  stupid-like,  and  the  police  don't  believe 
him." — "Don't  any  body  else  know  who  it  is?" 
"Hush—!" 

The  loud,  clear  voice  of  a  man  in  authority 
silenced  the  low  hum  of  talking  all  round  me  in 
an  instant. 

"Where  is  the  gentleman  who  tried  to  save 
him  ?"  said  the  voice. 

"  Here,  Sir — here  he  is !"  Dozens  of  eager 
faces  pressed  about  me — dozens  of  eager  arms 
parted  the  crowd.  The  man  in  authority  came 
up  to  me  with  a  lantern  in  his  hand. 

"This  way.  Sir,  if  you  please,"  he  said,  qui- 
etly. ^ 

I  was  unable  to  speak  to  him ;  I  was  unable 
to  resist  him,  when  he  took  my  arm.    I  tried  to 


say  that  I  had  never  seen  the  dead  man  in  his 
lifetime — that  there  was  no  hope  of  identifying 
him  by  means  of  a  stranger  like  me.  But  the 
words  failed  on  my  lips.  I  was  faint  and  silent 
and  helpless. 

"Do  you  know  him,  Sir?" 

I  was  standing  inside  a  circle  of  men.  Three 
of  them,  opposite  to  me,  were  holding  lanterns 
low  down  to  the  ground.  Their  eyes,  and  the 
eyes  of  all  the  rest,  were  fixed  silently  and  ex- 
pectantly on  my  face.  I  knew  what  was  at  my 
feet — I  knew  why  they  were  holding  the  lan- 
terns so  low  to  the  ground. 

"  Can  you  identify  him.  Sir?" 

My  eyes  dropped  slowly.  At  first  I  saw  no- 
thing under  them  but  a  coarse  canvas  cloth. 
The  dripping  of  the  rain  on  it  was  audible  in 
the  dreadful  silence.  I  looked  up,  along  the 
cloth ;  and  there,  at  the  end,  stark  and  grim 
and  black,  in  the  yellow  light — there  was  his 
dead  face. 

So,  for  the  first  and  last  time,  I  saw  him. 
So  the  Visitation  of  God  ruled  it  that  he  and  I 
should  meet. 

X. 

The  Inquest  was  hurried  for  certain  local 
reasons  wliicli  weighed  with  the  coroner  and 
the  town  authorities.  It  was  held  on  the  after- 
noon of  the  next  day.  I  was  necessarily  one 
among  the  witnesses  summoned  to  assist  the 
objects  of  the  investigation. 

J\Iy  first  proceeding  in  the  morning  was  to 
go  to  the  post-office  and  inquire  for  the  letter 
which  I  expected  from  Marian.  No  change 
of  circumstances,  however  extraordinary,  could 
affect  the  one  great  anxiety  which  weighed  on 
my  mind  while  I  was  away  from  London.  The 
morning's  letter,  which  v.as  the  only  assurance 
I  could  receive  that  no  misfortune  had  happen- 
ed in  my  absence,  was  still  the  absorbing  in- 
terest with  which  my  day  began. 

To  my  relief,  the  letter  from  Marian  was  at 
the  office  waiting  for  me.  Nothing  had  hap- 
pened— they  were  both  as  safe  and  as  well  as 
when  I  had  left  them.  Laura  sent  her  love, 
and  begged  that  I  would  let  her  know  of  my 
return  a  day  beforehand.  Her  sister  added,  in 
explanation  of  this  message,  that  she  had  saved 
"nearly  a  sovereign"  out  of  her  own  private 
purse,  and  that  she  had  claimed  the  privilege 
of  ordering  the  dinner  and  giving  the  dinner 
which  was  to  celebrate  the  day  of  my  return. 
I  read  these  little  domestic  confidences  in  the 
bright  morning,  with  the  terrible  recollection 
of  what  had  happened  the  evening  before  vivid 
in  my  memory.  The  necessity  of  sparing  Lau- 
ra any  sudden  knowledge  of  the  truth  was  the 
first  consideration  which  the  letter  suggested  to 
me.  I  wrote  at  once  to  Marian  to  tell  her  what 
I  have  told  in  these  pages,  pi-esenting  the  tid- 
ings as  gradually  and  gently  as  I  could,  and 
warning  her  not  to  let  any  such  thing  as  a  news- 
])aper  fall  in  Laura's  way  while  I  was  absent. 
In  the  case  of  any  other  woman,  less  coura- 
geous and  less  reliable,  I  might  have  hesitated 
before  I  ventured  on  unreservedly  disclosing  the 
whole  truth.  But  I  owed  it  to  Marian  to  be 
faithful  to  my  past  experience  of  her,  and  to 
trust  her  as  I  trusted  myself. 

iMy  letter  was  necessarily  a  long  one.  It  oc- 
cupied me  until  the  time  came  for  proceeding 
to  the  Inquest. 


218 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


The  objects  of  the  legal  inqinry  were  neces- 
sarily beset  by  peculiar  comijlications  and  diffi- 
culties. Besides  the  investitjation  into  the  man- 
ner in  which  the  deceased  had  met  liis  death, 
there  were  serious  questions  to  be  settled  relat- 
ing to  the  cause  of  the  fire,  to  the  abstraction 
oftlie  keys,  and  to  the  jn-csence  of  a  stranger 
in  the  vestry  at  the  time  when  the  flames  broke  ! 
out.  Even  the  identification  of  the  dead  man  ', 
had  not  yet  been  accomplislied.  Tlie  helpless 
condition  of  the  servant  had  made  the  police 
distrustful  of  his  asserted  recognition  of  his  mas- 
ter. They  had  sent  to  Knowlesbury  overnight 
to  secure  the  attendance  of  witnesses  who  were  . 
well  acquainted  with  the  personal  apjiearance 
of  Sir  Percival  Glydc,  and  they  had  communi- 
cated, the  first  tiling  in  the  morning,  with  Black- 
water  Fark.  These  precautions  enabled  the 
coroner  and  jury  to  settle  the  question  of  iden- 
tity, and  to  confirm  the  correctness  of  the  serv- 
ant's assertion ;  the  evidence  offered  by  com- 
])etent  witnesses,  and  by  the  discovery  of  cer- 
tain facts  being  subsequently  strengthened  by 
an  examination  of  the  dead  man's  watch.  The 
crest  and  the  name  of  Sir  I'ercival  Glyde  were 
engraved  inside  it. 

The  next  inquiries  related  to  the  fire. 

The  servant  and  I,  and  the  boy  who  had  heard 
the  light  struck  in  the  vestry,  were  the  first  wit- 
nesses called.  The  boy  gave  his  evidence  clear- 
ly enough ;  but  the  servant's  mind  had  not  yet 
recovered  the  shock  inflicted  on  it  —  he  was 
plainly  incapable  of  assisting  the  objects  of  the 
inquiry,  and  he  was  desired  to  stand  down.  To 
my  own  relief,  my  examination  was  not  a  long 
one.  I  had  not  known  the  deceased ;  I  had 
never  seen  him;  I  was  not  aware  of  his  presence 
at  Old  Welmingham  ;  and  I  had  not  been  in  the 
vestry  at  the  finding  of  the  body.  All  I  could 
prove  was  that  I  had  stoi)ped  at  the  clerk's  cot- 
tage to  ask  my  way;  that  I  had  heard  from  him 
ofthe  loss  of  the  keys;  that  I  had  accompanied 
him  to  the  church  to  render  what  help  I  could; 
that  I  had  seen  the  fire  ;  that  I  had  heard  some 
person  unknown,  inside  the  vestry,  trying  vainly 
to  unlock  the  door ;  and  that  I  had  done  what 
I  could,  from  motives  of  humanity,  to  save  the 
man.  Other  witnesses,  who  had  been  acquaint- 
ed with  the  deceased,  were  asked  if  they  could 
explain  the  mystery  of  his  presumed  abstrac- 
tion of  the  keys,  and  his  ])resence  in  the  burn- 
ing room.  But  the  coroner  seemed  to  take  it 
for  granted,  naturally  enough,  that  I,  as  a  total 
stranger  in  the  ncigliborhood,  and  a  total  stran- 
ger to  Sir  Percival  Glyde,  could  not  be  in  a  po- 
sition to  oft'er  any  evidence  on  these  two  points. 

Tlie  course  that  I  was  myself  bound  to  take, 
when  my  formal  examination  had  closed,  seem- 
ed clear  to  me.  I  did  not  feel  called  on  to  vol- 
unteer any  statement  of  my  own  private  convic- 
tions ;  in  the  first  place,  because  my  doing  so 
could  serve  no  practical  inirjiose,  now  that  all 
proof  in  sujijiort  of  any  surmises  of  mine  was 
burned  with  the  burned  register;  in  the  second 
place,  because  I  could  not  have  intelligibly  stated 
my  opinion — my  unsuii])orted  o])inion — without 
disclosing  the  whole  story  of  the  conspiracy, 
and  producing,  beyond  a  doul)t,  the  same  un- 
satisfactory efl'ect  on  the  minds  of  the  coroner 
and  the  jury  which  I  had  already  produced  on 
the  mind  of  Mr.  Kyrle. 

In  these  pages,  however,  and  after  the  time 


that  has  now  elapsed,  no  such  cautions  and  re- 
straints as  are  here  described  need  fetter  the 
free  expression  of  my  opinion.  I  will  state 
briefly,  before  my  pen  occu]>ies  itself  with  other 
events,  how  my  own  convictions  lead  me  to  ac- 
count for  the  abstraction  of  the  kej's,  for  the  out- 
break of  the  fire,  and  for  the  death  of  the  man. 
The  news  of  my  being  unex])ectedly  free  on 
bail  drove  Sir  Percival,  as  I  believe,  to  his  last 
resources.  The  attempted  attack  on  the  road 
was  one  of  those  resources  ;  and  the  sui)pression 
of  all  i)ractical  proof  of  his  crime,  by  destroying 
the  jjage  of  the  register  on  which  the  forgery 
had  been  committed,  was  the  other,  and  the 
surest  of  the  two.  If  I  could  produce  no  ex- 
tract from  the  original  book  to  compare  with 
the  certified  copy  at  Knowlesbury,  I  could  pro- 
duce no  positive  evidence,  and  could  threaten 
him  with  no  fatal  exposure.  All  that  was  nec- 
essary to  the  attainment  of  his  end  was,  that  he 
should  get  into  the  vestry  unperceived,  that  he 
should  tear  out  the  page  in  the  register,  and 
that  he  should  leave  the  vestry  again  as  private- 
ly as  he  had  entered  it. 

On  this  supposition  it  is  easy  to  understand 
why  he  waited  until  nightfall  before  he  made 
the  attempt,  and  why  he  took  advantage  of  the 
clerk's  absence  to  jiossess  himself  of  the  keys. 
Necessity  would  oblige  him  to  strike  a  light  to 
find  his  way  to  the  right  register;  and  common 
caution  would  suggest  his  locking  tlie  door  on 
the  inside  in  case  of  intrusion  on  the  ])art  of 
any  inquisitive  stranger,  or  on  my  part,  if  I  hap- 
pened to  be  in  the  neighborhood  at  the  time. 

I  can  not  believe  that  it  was  any  part  of  his 
intention  to  make  the  destruction  of  the  register 
appear  to  be  the  result  of  accident  by  pui-pose- 
ly  setting  the  vestry  on  fire.  The  bare  chance 
that  ]>rompt  assistance  might  arrive,  and  that 
the  books  might,  by  the  remotest  possibility,  be 
saved,  would  have  been  enough,  on  a  moment's 
consideration,  to  dismiss  any  idea  of  this  sort 
from  his  mind.  liemenibering  the  quantity  of 
combustible  objects  in  the  vestry — the  straw," 
the  j)apers,  the  packing-cases,  the  dry  wood,  the 
old  worm-eaten  presses — all  the  probabilities,  in 
m}'  estimation,  jioint  to  the  fire  as  the  result  of 
an  accident  with  his  matches  or  his  light. 

His  first  imi)ulse,  under  these  circumstances, 
was  doubtless  to  try  to  extinguish  the  flames — 
and  failing  in  that,  his  second  impulse  (ignorant 
as  he  was  of  the  state  of  the  lock)  had  been  to 
attempt  to  escajie  by  the  door  which  had  given 
him  entrance.  When  I  had  called  to  him  the 
flames  must  have  extended  across  the  door 
leading  into  the  churcli,  on  either  side  of  which 
the  presses  extended,  and  close  to  which  the 
other  combustible  objects  were  i>laced.  In  all 
probability  the  smoke  and  flame  (confined  as 
they  were  to  the  room)  had  been  too  much  for 
him  when  he  tried  to  csca]ic  by  the  inner  door. 
He  must  liave  drop])ed  in  his  death-swoon — he 
must  have  sunk  in  the  jilace  where  he  was  found 
— just  as  I  got  on  the  roof  to  break  the  sky- 
light-window. Even  if  we  iiad  been  able  after- 
ward to  get  into  the  church,  and  to  burst  open 
the  door  from  that  side,  the  delay  must  have 
been  fatal.  He  would  have  been  i>ast  saving, 
long  past  saving,  by  that  time.  We  should 
only  have  given  the  flanicsTrce  ingress  into  the 
church:  the  church,  which  was  now  jireserved, 
but  which,  in  that  event,  would  have  shared  the 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


219 


'^?'.^'^[ 


"the    smoke    and   FLAJIE,   confined   as   THET   -were   to   the    K003I,   HAD   BEEN   TOO  MUCH 

FOK    HIM." 


fate  of  the  vestry.  There  is  no  doiiht  in  my 
mind — there  can  he  no  donbt  in  the  mind  of 
any  one — that  he  was  a  dead  man  before  ever 
we  got  to  the  empty  cottage  and  worked  with 
might  and  main  to  tear  down  the  beam. 

This  is  the  nearest  approach  that  any  theory 
of  mine  can  make  toward  accounting  for  a  re- 
sult which  was  visible  matter  of  fact.  As  I  have 
described  them,  so  events  passed  to  us  outside. 
As  I  have  related  it,  so  his  body  was  found. 

The  Inquest  was  adjourned  over  one  day  ;  no 
explanation  that  the  eye  of  the  law  could  rec- 
ognize having  been  discovered,  thus  far,  to  ac- 
count for  the  mysterious  circumstances  of  the 
case. 

It  was  arranged  that  more  witnesses  should 
be  summoned,  and  that  the  London  solicitor  of 
the  deceased  should  be  invited  to  attend.  A 
medical  man  was  also  charged  with  tlie  duty  of 
reporting  on  the  mental  condition  of  the  servant, 
which  appeared  at  present  to  debar  him  from 
giving  any  evidence  of  the  least  importance.  He 
could  only  declare,  in  a  dazed  way,  that  he  had 
been  ordered,  on  the  night  of  the  fire,  to  wait 
in  the  lane,  and  that  he  knew  nothing  else,  ex- 
cept that  the  deceased  was  certainly  his  master. 


';  5Iy  o<vn  impression  was,  that  he  had  been  first 
used  (without  any  guilty  knowledge  on  Ids  own 
part)  to  ascertain  the  fact  of  the  clerk's  absence 
from  home  on  the  previous  day ;  and  that  he 
had  been  afterward  ordered  to  wait  near  the 
church  (but  out  of  sight  of  the  vestry)  to  assist 
his  master,  in  tiie  event  of  my  escaping  the  at- 
tack on  the  road,  and  of  a  collision  occurring  be- 
tween Sir  Percival  and  myself.  It  is  necessary 
to  add,  that  the  man's  own  testimony  was  never 
obtained  to  confirm  this  view.  The  medical  re- 
port of  him  declared  that  what  little  mental  fac- 
ulty he  ])ossessed  was  seriously  shaken  ;  nothing 
satisfactory  was  extracted  from  him  at  the  ad- 
journed Inquest  ;  and,  for  aught  I  know' to  the 
contrary,  he  may  never  have  recovered  to  this 
day. 

i  returned  to  the  hotel  at  Welmingham,  so 
jaded  in  body  and  mind,  so  weakened  and  de- 
pressed by  all"  that  I  had  gone  through,  as  to  be 
quite  untit  to  endure  the  local  gossip  about  the 
Inquest,  and  to  answer  the  trivial  questions  that 
the  talkers  addressed  to  me  in  the  coftee-room. 
I  withdrew  from  my  scanty  dinner  to  my  cheap 
garret-chamber,  to  secure  myself  a  little  quiet, 
and  to  think,  undisturbed,  of  Laura  and  Marian. 

If  I  had  been  a  richer  man  I  would  have  gone 


220 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


^J  n  1 


^.A^'}  m 


back  to  London,  and  would  have  comforted  my- 
self with  a  sight  of  the  two  dear  faces  again 
that  nip;ht.  But  I  was  bound  to  ajipear  if  called 
on  at  the  adjourned  Inquest,  and  doubly  bound 
to  answer  my  bail  before  the  magistrate  at 
Knowlesbury.  Our  slender  resoui-ces  had  suf- 
fered already ;  and  the  doubtful  future — more 
doubtful  than  ever  now — made  me  dread  de- 
creasing our  means  unnecessarily,  bj"^  allowing 
myself  an  indulgence,  even  at  the  small  cost  of 
a  double  railway  journey,  in  the  carriages  of  the 
second  class. 

The  next  day — the  day  immediately  following 
the  Inquest — was  left  at  my  own  disposal.  I  be- 
gan the  morning  by  again  api>lying  at  the  post- 
office  for  my  regular  rejiort  from  Marian.  It 
was  waiting  for  me,  as  before,  and  it  was  writ- 
ten throughout  in  good  spirits.  I  read  the  let- 
ter thankfully ;  and  tlien  set  forth,  with  my  mind 
at  ease  for  the  day,  to  walk  to  Old  Welming- 
ham,  and  to  view  the  scene  of  the  fire  by  the 
morning  light. 

Truly  has  the  great  poet  said,  "There  is  no- 
thing serious  in  mortality."  Through  all  the 
ways  of  our  unintelligible  world  the  trivial  and 
the  terrible  walk  hand  in  hand  together.  The 
irony  of  circumstances  holds  no  mortal  catastro- 
phe in  respect.  When  I  reached  the  church 
the  trampled  condition  of  the  biu'ial-ground  was 
the  only  serious  trace  left  of  the  fire  and  the 
death.  A  rough  hoarding  of  boards  had  been 
knocked  up  before  the  vestry  door-way.  Rude 
caricatures  were  scrawled  on  it  already ;  and 
the  village  children  were  fighting  and  shouting 
for  the  possession  of  tlic  best  peep-hole  to  see 


through.  On  the  spot  -where  I  had  heard  the 
cry  for  help  from  the  burning  room,  on  the  spot 
where  the  panic-stricken  servant  had  dropped 
on  his  knees,  a  fussy  flock  of  poultry  was  now 
scrambling  for  the  first  choice  of  worms  after 
the  rain — and  on  the  ground  at  my  feet,  where 
the  door  and  its  dreadful  burden  had  been  laid, 
a  workman's  dinner  was  waiting  for  him,  tied 
up  in  a  yellow  basin,  and  his  faithful  cur  in 
charge  was  yelping  at  me  for  coming  near  the 
food.  The  old  clerk,  looking  idly  at  the  slow 
commencement  of  the  repairs,  had  only  one 
interest  that  he  conld  talk  about  now — the  in- 
terest of  escaping  all  blame,  for  his  own  ]iart, 
on  account  of  the  accident  that  had  hajipened. 
One  of  the  village  women,  Avhose  white,  wild 
face  I  remembered,  the  picture  of  terror,  when 
W'e  pv;lled  down  the  beam,  was  giggling  with 
another  woman,  the  picture  of  inanity,  over  an 
old  washing-tub.  Nothing  serious  in  mortality ! 
Solomon  in  all  his  glory  was  Solomon  with  the 
elements  of  the  contemptible  lurking  in  every 
fold  of  his  robes  and  in  every  corner  of  his  pal- 
ace. 

As  I  left  the  ])lace  my  thoughts  turned,  not 
for  the  first  time,  to  the  complete  overthrow  that 
all  present  ho]je  of  establishing  Laura's  identity 
had  now  suffered  through  Sir  Percival's  death. 
If  he  had  lived — well !  if  he  had,  Mould  that 
total  change  of  circumstances  really  have  altered 
the  result?  Could  I  have  made  my  discovery  a 
marketable  commodity,  even  for  Laura's  sake, 
after  I  had  found  out  that  robbery  of  the  rights 
of  others  was  the  essence  of  Sir  Percival's  crime  ? 
Could  I  have  offered  the  price  of  iny  silence  for 
his  confession  of  the  consj)iracy,  when  the  effect 
of  that  silence  must  have  been  to  keep  the  right 
heir  from  the  estates,  and  the  right  owner  from 
the  name?  Impossible!  If  Sir  Percival  had 
lived,  the  discovery,  from  which  (in  my  igno- 
rance of  the  true  nature  of  the  Secret)  I  had 
hoped  so  much,  could  not  have  been  mine  to 
suppress  or  to  make  public,  as  I  thought  best,  for 
the  vindication  of  Laura's  rights.  In  common 
honesty  and  common  honor  I  must  have  gone 
at  once  to  the  stranger  whose  birth-right  had 
been  usurped — I  must  have  renounced  the  vic- 
tory at  the  moment  when  it  was  mine,  by  plac- 
ing my  discovery  unreservedly  in  that  stranger's 
hands — and  I  must  have  faced  afresh  all  the 
difficulties  which  stood  between  me  and  the  one 
]iurj;iose  of  my  life,  exactly  as  I  was  resolved,  in 
my  heart  of  hearts,  to  face  them  now! 

I  returned  to  Welmingham  with  my  mind  com- 
posed, feeling  more  sure  of  myself  and  my  res- 
olution than  I  had  felt  yet. 

On  my  way  to  the  hotel  I  passed  the  end 
of  the  square  in  which  Mrs.  Catherick  lived. 
Should  I  go  back  to  the  house  and  make  an- 
other attemjjt  to  see  her?  No.  That  news  of 
Sir  Percival's  death,  which  was  the  last  news 
she  ever  expected  to  hear,  must  have  reached 
her  hours  since.  All  the  ]}roceedings  at  the  In- 
quest had  been  re])orted  in  the  local  ]ia])er  that 
morning:  there  was  nothing  I  could  tell  her 
which  she  did  not  know  already.  J\Iy  interest 
in  making  her  speak  had  slackened.  I  remem- 
bered the  furtive  hatred  in  her  face  when  she 
said,  "  There  is  no  news  of  Sir  Percival  that  I 
don't  expect — excejit  the  news  of  his  death." 
I  remcuibered  the  stealthy  interest  in  her  eyes 
when  they  settled  on  me  at  parting,  after  she 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


221 


had  spoken  those  words.  Some  instinct,  deep 
in  my  heart,  which  I  felt  to  be  a  true  one,  made 
the  prospect  of  again  entering  her  presence  re- 
pulsive to  me — I  turned  away  from  the  square, 
and  went  straight  back  to  the  hotel. 

Some  hours  later,  while  I  was  resting  in  the 
cottoe-room,  a  letter  was  placed  in  my  hands  by 
the  waiter.  It  was  addressed  to  me  by  name ; 
and  I  found,  on  inquiry,  that  it  had  been  left  at 
the  bar  by  a  woman  just  as  it  was  near  dusk, 
and  just  before  the  gas  was  lighted.  She  had 
said  nothing;  and  she  liad  gone  away  again  be- 
fore there  was  time  to  speak  to  her,  or  even  to 
notice  who  she  was. 

I  opened  the  letter.  It  was  neither  dated 
nor  signed,  and  the  handwriting  was  palpably 
disguised.  Before  I  liad  read  the  first  sentence, 
however,  I  knew  who  my  correspondent  was. 
Mrs.  Catherick. 

The  letter  ran  as  follows — I  copy  it  exactly, 
word  for  word : 

"  Sir, — ^You  have  not  come  back,  as  you  said 
yon  would.  No  matter;  I  know  the  news,  and 
i  write  to  tell  you  so.  Did  you  see  any  thing 
particular  in  my  face  when  you  left  me?  I  was 
wondering,  in  my  own  mind,  whether  the  day  of 
his  downfall  had  come  at  last,  and  whether  you 
were  the  chosen  instrument  for  working  it.  You 
were — and  you  have  worked  it.  You  were  weak 
enough,  as  I  have  heard,  to  try  and  save  his  life. 
If  you  had  succeeded,  I  should  have  looked  upon 
you  as  my  enemy.  Now  you  have  failed,  I  hold 
you  as  my  friend.  Your  inquiries  frightened 
him  into  the  vestry  by  night ;  your  inquiries, 
without  your  privity  and  against  your  will,  have 
served  the  hatred  and  wi'eaked  the  vengeance 
of  three-and-twenty  years.  Thank  you,  Sir,  in 
spite  of  yourself. 

"I  owe  something  to  the  man  who  has  done 
this.  How  can  I  pay  my  debt?  If  I  was  a 
young  woman  still,  I  might  say,  '  Come !  put 
your  arm  round  my  waist,  and  kiss  me  if  you 
like.  I  should  have  been  fond  enough  of  you 
even  to  go  that  length ;  and  you  would  have  ac- 
cepted my  invitation — you  would,  Sir,  twenty 
years  ago  !  But  I  am  an  old  woman  now. 
Well !  I  can  satisfy  your  curiosity,  and  pay  my 
debt  in  that  way.  You  had  a  great  curiosity 
to  know  cei'tain  private  atfairs  of  mine  when 
you  came  to  see  me — private  affairs,  which  all 
your  sharpness  could  not  look  into  without  my 
help — private  aifairs,  which  you  have  not  dis- 
covered even  now.  You  shall  discover  them ; 
your  curiosity  shall  be  satisfied.  I  will  take 
any  trouble  to  please  you,  my  estimable  young 
friend ! 

"  You  were  a  little  boy,  I  suppose,  in  the  year 
twenty-seven?  I  was  a  handsome  young  wo- 
man at  that  time,  living  at  Old  Welmingham. 
I  had  a  contemptible  fool  for  a  husband.  I 
had  also  the  honor  of  being  acquainted  (never 
mind  how)  with  a  certain  gentleman  (never 
mind  whom).  I  shall  not  call  him  by  his  name. 
Why  should  I  ?  It  was  not  his  own.  He  never 
had  a  name :  yon  know  that,  by  this  time,  as 
well  as  I  do. 

"It  will  be  more  to  the  purpose  to  tell  you 
how  he  worked  himself  into  my  good  graces.  I 
was  born  with  the  tastes  of  a  lady,  and  he  grati- 
fied them.  In  other  words,  he  admired  me,  and 
he  made  me  presents.     No  woman  can  resist 


admiration  and  presents — especially  presents, 
provided  they  happen  to  be  just  the  things  she 
wants.  He  was  sharp  enough  to  know  that — 
most  men  are.  Naturally,  he  wanted  something 
in  return — all  men  do.  And  what  do  you  think 
was  the  something?  The  merest  trifle.  No- 
thing but  the  key  of  the  vestry,  and  the  key  of 
the  press  inside  it,  when  my  husband's  back 
was  turned.  Of  course  he  lied  when  I  asked 
him  why  he  wished  me  to  get  him  the  keys  in 
that  private  way.  He  might  have  saved  him- 
self the  trouble — I  didn't  believe  him.  But  I 
liked  my  presents,  and  I  wanted  more.  So  I 
got  him  the  keys  without  my  husband's  knowl- 
edge; and  I  watched  hira  without  his  own 
knowledge.  Once,  twice,  four  times  I  watched 
him ;  and  the  fourth  time  I  found  him  out. 

"  I  was  never  overscrupulous  where  other 
people's  affairs  were  concerned;  and  I  was  not 
overscrupulous  about  his  adding  one  to  the 
marriages  in  the  register  on  his  own  account. 
Of  course  I  knew  it  was  wrong,  but  it  did  no 
harm  to  me — which  was  one  good  reason  for  not 
making  a  fuss  about  it.  And  I  had  not  got  a 
gold  watch  and  chain — which  was  another,  still 
better.  And  he  had  promised  me  one  from 
London  only  the  day  before — which  was  a 
third,  best  of  all.  If  I  had  known  what  the 
law  considered  the  crime  to  be,  and  how  the 
law  punished  it,  I  should  have  taken  proper 
care  of  myself,  and  have  exposed  him  then  and 
thei-e.  But  I  knew  nothing,  and  I  longed  for 
the  gold  watch.  All  the  conditions  I  insisted 
on  were  that  he  should  take  me  into  his  confi- 
dence, and  tell  me  every  thing.  I  was  as  cu- 
rious about  his  aff'airs  then  as  you  are  about 
mine  now.  He  granted  my  conditions — why, 
you  will' see  pi-esently. 

"This,  put  in  short,  is  what  I  heard  from 
him.  He  did  not  willingly  tell  me  all  that  I 
tell  you  here.  I  drew  some  of  it  from  him  by 
jjersuasion,  and  some  of  it  by  questions.  I  was 
determined  to  have  all  the  truth,  and  I  believe 
I  got  it. 

"  He  knew  no  more  than  any  one  else  of  what 
the  state  of  things  really  was  between  his  father 
and  mother  till  after  his  mother's  death.  Then 
his  father  confessed  it,  and  promised  to  do  what 
he  could  for  his  son.  He  died  having  done  no- 
thing— not  having  even  made  a  will.  The  son 
(who  can  blame  him  ?)  wisely  provided  for  him- 
self. He  came  to  England  at  once,  and  took 
possession  of  the  property.  There  was  no  one  to 
suspect  him,  and  no  one  to  say  him  nay.  His 
father  and  mother  had  always  lived  as  man  and 
wife — none  of  the  few  people  wlio  were  ac- 
quainted with  them  ever  supposed  them  to  be 
any  thing  else.  The  right  person  to  claim  the 
property  (if  the  truth  had  been  known)  was  a 
distant  relation,  who  had  no  idea  of  ever  get- 
ting it,  and  who  was  away  at  sea  when  his  fa- 
ther died.  He  had  no  difiiculty,  so  fiir — he 
took  possession,  as  a  matter  of  course.  But  he 
could  not  borrow  money  on  the  property  as  a 
matter  of  course.  There  were  two  things 
wanted  of  him  before  he  could  do  this.  One 
was  a  certificate  of  his  birth,  and  the  other  was 
a  cei^tificate  of  his  parents'  marriage.  The  cer- 
tificate of  his  birth  was  easily  got — he  was  born 
abroad,  and  the  certificate  was  there  in  due 
form.  The  other  matter  was  a  difiiculty,  and 
that  difiiculty  brought  him  to  Old  Welmingham. 


222 


THE  WO:iIAN  IN  WHITE. 


"  But  for  one  consideration  he  might  have  ! 
p;one  to  Knowlesbiuy  instead.  His  mother  had 
been  living  tliere  just  before  she  met  with  his 
father  —  living  under  her  maiden  name;  the 
truth  being  that  she  was  really  a  married  wo- 
man, married  in  Ireland,  where  her  husband 
had  ill-used  her,  and  had  afterward  gone  off 
with  another  woman.  I  give  you  this  fact  on 
good  authority :  Sir  Felix  mentioned  it  to  his 
son  as  the  reason  why  he  had  not  married. 
You  may  wonder  why  the  son,  knowing  that 
his  parents  had  met  each  other  at  Knowles- 
bury,  did  not  play  liis  first  tricks  with  the  regis- 
ter of  that  church,  where  it  might  have  been 
fairly  presumed  his  father  and  mother  were 
married.  The  reason  was  that  the  clergyman 
who  did  duty  at  Knowleslniry  church  in  the 
year  eighteen  hundred  and  three  (when,  accord- 
ing to  his  birth-certiticate,  his  father  and  mo- 
ther ought  to  have  been  married)  was  alive  still 
when  he  took  possession  of  the  property  in  the 
New  Year  of  eighteen  hundred  and  twenty- 
seven.  This  awkward  circumstance  forced  him 
to  extend  his  inquiries  to  our  neighborhood. 
There  no  such  danger  existed — the  former  cler- 
gyman at  our  church  having  been  dead  for  some 
years. 

"  Old  Welmingham  suited  his  purpose  as  well 
as  Knowlesbury.  His  father  had  removed  his 
mother  from  Knowlesbury,  and  had  lived  with 
her  at  a  cottage  on  the  river,  a  little  distance 
from  our  village.  People  who  had  known  his 
solitary  ways  in  former  times  did  not  wonder  at 
his  solitary  ways  now.  If  he  had  been  any 
thing  but  a  hideous,  crooked  creature  to  look 
at,  his  retired  life  with  the  lady  might  have 
raised  some  suspicions;  but  as  things  were,  his 
hiding  his  ugliness  and  his  deformity  in  the 
strictest  privacy  surprised  nobody.  He  lived  in 
our  neighborhood  till  he  came  in  possession  of 
the  Park.  After  three  or  four  and  twenty  years 
had  passed,  who  was  to  say  (the  clergyman  being 
dead)  that  his  marriage  had  not  been  as  private 
as  the  rest  of  his  life,  and  that  it  had  not  taken 
place  at  Old  Welmingham  Ciiurch? 

"So,  as  I  told  you,  the  son  found  our  neigh- 
borhood the  surest  place  he  could  choose  to  set 
things  right  secretly  in  his  own  interests.  It 
may  surprise  you  to  hear  that  what  he  really 
did  to  the  marriage-register  was  done  on  the 
spur  of  the  moment — done  on  second  thoughts. 

"His  first  notion  was  only  to  tear  the  leaf 
out  (in  the  right  year  and  month),  to  destroy  it 
privately,  to  go  back  to  London,  and  to  tell  the 
lawyers  to  get  him  the  necessary  certificate  of 
his  father's  marriage,  innocently  referring  them, 
of  course,  to  the  date  on  the  leaf  that  was  gone. 
Nobody  could  say  his  father  and  mother  had 
not  been  married  after  that,  and  whether,  un- 
der the  circumstances,  they  would  stretch  a 
■  point  or  not,  about  lending  him  the  money  (he 
thought  they  would),  he  had  his  answer  ready, 
at  all  events,  if  a  question  was  ever  raised  about 
his  right  to  the  name  and  the  estate. 

"  But  when  he  came  to  look  privately  at  the 
register  for  himself,  he  found  at  the  bottom  of 
one  of  the  pages  lor  the  year  eighteen  hundred 
and  three  a  blaidv  space  left,  seemingly  through 
there  being  no  room  to  make  a  long  entry  there, 
which  was  made  instead  at  the  top  of  the  next 
page.  The  sight  of  this  chance  altered  all  his 
plans.     It  was   an  ojiportunity  he   had   never 


hoped  for  or  thought  of;  and  he  took  it,  yon 
know  how.  The  blank  space,  to  have  exactly 
tallied  with  his  birth-certificate,  ought  to  have 
occurred  in  the  February  part  of  the  register. 
It  occurred  in  the  Ai)ril  ]jart  instead.  How- 
ever, in  this  case,  if  suspicious  questions  were 
asked,  the  answer  was  not  hard  to  find.  He 
had  only  to  describe  himself  as  a  seven  months' 
child. 

"  I  was  fool  enough,  when  he  told  me  his 
story,  to  feel  some  interest  and  some  jiity  for 
him;  which  was  just  what  he  calculated  on,  as 
you  w^ill  see.  I  thought  him  hardly  used.  It 
was  not  his  fault  that  his  father  and  mother 
were  not  married  ;  and  it  was  not  his  father's 
and  mother's  fault  either.  A  more  scrujuilous 
woman  than  I  was — a  woman  who  had  not  set 
her  heart  on  a  gold  watch  and  chain — would 
have  fotmd  some  excuses  for  him.  At  all 
events,  I  held  my  tongue,  and  heljied  to  screen 
what  he  was  about.  He  was  some  time  getting 
the  ink  the  right  color  (mixing  it  over  and  over 
again  in  pots  and  bottles  of  mine),  and  some 
time  afterward  in  jiracticing  the  handwriting. 
But  he  succeeded  in  the  end,  and  made  an 
honest  woman  of  his  mother  after  she  was  dead 
in  her  grave!  So  far  I  don't  deny  that  he  be- 
haved honorably  enough  to  myself.  He  gave 
me  my  watch  and  chain,  and  spared  no  expense 
in  buying  them  ;  both  were  of  superior  work- 
mauslii]),  and  very  expensive.  I  have  got  them 
still :  the  watch  goes  beautifully. 

"  You  said  the  other  day  that  Mrs.  Clements 
had  told  you  every  thing  she  knew.  In  that 
case  there  is  no  need  for  me  to  write  about  the 
trumpery  scandal  by  which  I  was  the  suflierer — 
the  innocent  sufterer,  I  positively  assert.  You 
must  know  as  well  as  I  do  what  the  notion  was 
which  my  husband  took  into  his  head,  when  he 
found  me  and  my  fine-gentleman  acquaintance 
meeting  each  other  privatelv,  and  talking  se- 
crets together.  But  what  you  don't  know  is, 
how  it  ended  between  that  same  gentleman  and 
myself.  You  shall  read,  and  see  how  he  behaved 
to  me. 

"The  first  words  I  said  to  him,  when  I  saw 
the  turn  things  had  taken,  were :  '  Do  me  justice 
— clear  my  character  of  a  stain  on  it  which  you 
know  I  don't  deserve.  I  do7i't  want  you  to  make 
a  clean  breast  of  it  to  my  husband — only  tell 
him,  on  your  word  of  honor  as  a  gentleman, 
that  he  is  wrong,  and  that  I  am  not  to  blame  in 
the  way  he  thinks  I  am.  Do  me  that  justice  at 
least,  after  all  I  have  done  for  you.'  He  flatly 
refused,  in  so  many  words.  He  told  me  jilainly 
that  it  was  his  interest  to  let  my  husband  and 
all  my  neighbors  liclievc  the  falsehood  ;  because 
as  long  as  they  did  so  they  were  quite  certain 
never  to  susjicct  the  truth.  I  had  a  spirit  of  my 
own,  and  I  told  him  they  should  know  the  truth 
from  my  lips.  His  rej)ly  was  short,  and  to  the 
point.  If  1  spoke,  I  was  a  lost  woman  as  certain- 
ly as  he  was  a  lost  man. 

"  Yes !  it  had  come  to  that.  He  had  deceived 
me  about  the  risk  I  ran  in  hel])ing  him.  He 
had  practiced  on  my  ignorance  ;  he  had  tempted 
me  with  his  gifts;  he  had  interested  me  witli 
his  story ;  and  the  residt  of  it  was  that  he  had 
made  me  his  accomplice.  He  owned  this  coolly ; 
and  he  ended  by  tolling  mc,  for  the  first  time, 
what  the  frightful  jiunishmciU  really  was  for  his 
oftense,  aiul  for  any  one  who  heljied  him  to  com- 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


223 


mit  it.  In  those  days  the  Law  was  not  so  ten- 
der-hearted as  I  hear  it  is  now.  IMurderers 
were  not  the  only  people  liable  to  be  hanged ; 
and  women  convicts  were  not  treated  like  ladies 
in  undeserved  distress.  I  confess  he  frightened 
me — the  mean  impostor!  the  cowardly  black- 
guard! Do  you  understand  now  liow  I  hated 
him?  Do  you  understand  why  I  am  taking  all 
this  trouble— thankfully  taking  it— to  gratify 
the  curiosity  of  the  meritorious  young  gentle- 
man who  hunted  him  down? 

"  Well,  to  go  on.  He  was  hardly  fool  enough 
to  drive  me  to  downright  desperation.  I  was 
not  the  sort  of  woman  whom  it  was  quite  safe  to 
hunt  into  a  corner:  he  knew  that,  and  wisely 
quieted  me  with  proposals  for  tlie  future.  I  de- 
served some  reward  (he  was  kind  enough  to  say) 
for  the  service  I  had  done  him,  and  some  com- 
pensation (he  was  so  obliging  as  to  add)  for 
what  I  had  suftered.  lie  was  quite  willing — 
generous  scoundrel ! — to  make  me  a  handsome 
yearly  allowance,  payable  quarterly,  on  two  con- 
ditions. First,  I  was  to  hold  my  tongue — in  my 
own  interests  as  well  as  in  his.  Secondly,  I 
was  not  to  stir  away  from  Welmingham  without 
first  letting  him  know,  and  waiting  till  I  had 
obtained  his  permission.  In  my  own  neighbor- 
hood no  virtuous  female  friends  would  tempt  me 
into  dangerous  gossiping  at  the  tea-table — in 
ray  own  neighborhood  he  would  always  know 
where  to  find  me.  A  hard  condition,  that  sec- 
ond one,  but  I  accepted  it.  What  else  was  I 
to  do?  I  was  left  helpless,  with  the  prospect 
of  a  coming  encumbrance  in  the  shape  of  a  child. 
What  else  was  I  to  do?  Cast  myself  on  the 
raercy  of  my  runaway  idiot  of  a  husband,  who 
had  raised  the  scandal  against  me  ?  I  would 
have  died  first.  Besides,  the  allowance  was  a 
handsome  one.  I  had  a  better  income,  a  bet- 
ter house  over  my  head,  better  carpets  on  my 
floors,  than  half  the  women  who  turned  up  the 
whites  of  their  eyes  at  the  sight  of  me.  The 
dress  of  Virtue  in  our  parts  was  cotton  print.  I 
had  silk. 

"So  I  accepted  the  conditions  he  ofi^ered  me 
and  made  the  best  of  them,  and  fought  my  bat- 
tle with  my  respectable  neighbors  on  their  own 
ground,  and  won  it  in  course  of  time — as  you 
saw  yourself.  How  I  kept  his  Secret  (and  mine) 
through  all  the  years  that  have  passed  from  that 
time  to  this ;  and  whether  my  late  daughter, 
Anne,  ever  really  crept  into  my  confidence,  and 
got  the  keeping  of  the  Secret  too,  are  questions, 
I  dare  say,  to  which  yon  are  curious  to  find  an 
answer.  Well!  my  gratitude  refuses  j^ou  no- 
thing. I  will  turn  to  a  fresh  page,  and  give  you 
the  answer  presently. 

"  I  must  begin  this  fresh  page,  Mr.  Hartright, 
by  expressing  my  surprise  at  the  interest  which 
you  appear  to  have  felt  in  my  late  daughter — it 
is  quite  unaccountable  to  me.  If  that  interest 
makes  you  anxious  for  any  particulars  of  her 
early  life,  I  must  refer  you  to  INIrs.  Clements, 
who  knows  more  of  the  subject  than  I  do.  Pray 
understand  that  I  do  not  profess  to  have  been 
at  all  overfond  of  my  late  daughter.  She  was 
a  worry  and  an  encumbrance  to  me  from  first  to 
last,  with  the  additional  disadvantage  of  being 
always  weak  in  the  head. 

"  There  is  no  need  to  trottble  yon  with  many 
personal  particulars  relating  to  those  past  times. 
It  will  be  enough  to  say  that  I  observed  the 


terms  of  the  bargain  on  my  side,  and  that  I 
enjuyed  my  comfortable  income,  in  return,  j>aid 
quarterly.  Now  and  then  I  got  away,  and 
changed  the  scene  for  a  short  time ;  always 
asking  leave  of  my  lord  and  master  first,  and 
generally  getting  it.  He  was  not,  as  I  have 
already  told  you,  fool  enough  to  drive  me  too 
hard  ;  and  he  could  reasonalily  rely  on  my  hold- 
ing my  tongue,  for  my  own  sake,  if  not  for  his. 
One  of  my  longest  trips  away  from  home  was 
the  trip  I  took  to  Limmeridge,  to  nurse  a  half- 
sister  there,  who  was  dying.  She  was  reported 
to  have  saved  money;  and  I  thought  it  as  well 
(in  case  any  accident  happened  to  stop  my  al- 
lowance) to  look  after  my  own  interests  in  that 
direction.  As  things  turned  out,  however,  my 
pains  were  all  thrown  away  ;  and  I  got  nothing, 
because  nothing  was  to  be  had. 

"  I  had  taken  x\nne  to  the  north  with  me ; 
having  my  whims  and  fancies  occasionally  about 
my  child,  and  getting,  at  such  times,  jealous  of 
Mrs.  Clements's  influence  over  her.  I  never 
liked  Mrs.  Clements.  She  was  a  poor,  empty- 
headed,  spiritless  woman — what  you  call  a  born 
drudge — and  I  was,  now  and  then,  not  averse  to 
plaguing  her  by  taking  Anne  away.  Not  know- 
ing what  else  to  do  with  my  girl  while  I  was 
nursing  in  Cumberland,  I  put  her  to  school  at 
Limmeridge.  The  lady  of  the  manor,  Mrs.  Fair- 
lie  (a  remarkably  plain-looking  woman,  who  had 
entrapped  one  of  the  handsomest  men  in  En- 
gland into  marrying  her),  amused  me  wonder- 
fully by  taking  a  violent  fancy  to  my  girl.  The 
consequence  was,  she  learned  nothing  at  school, 
and  was  petted  and  spoiled  at  Limmeridge 
House.  Among  other  whims  and  fancies  which 
they  taught  her  there,  they  put  some  nonsense 
into  her  head  about  always  wearing  white.  Hat- 
ing white  and  liking  colors  myself,  I  determ- 
ined to  take  the  nonsense  out  of  her  head  as 
soon  as  we  got  home  again. 

"  Strange  to  say,  my  daughter  resolutely  re- 
sisted me.  When  she  had  got  a  notion  once 
fixed  in  her  mind  she  was,  like  other  half-wit- 
ted people,  as  obstinate  as  a  mule  in  keeping  it. 
We  quarreled  finely  ;  and  j\Irs.  Clements,  not 
liking  to  see  it,  I  suppose,  offered  to  take  Anno 
away  to  live  in  London  with  her.  I  should 
have  said  Yes,  if  Mrs.  Clements  had  not  sided 
with  my  daughter  about  her  dressing  herself  in 
white.  But  being  determined  she  should  not 
dress  herself  in  white,  and  disliking  Mrs.  Clem- 
ents more  than  ever  for  taking  iiart  against  me, 
I  said  No,  and  meant  No,  and  stuck  to  No. 
The  consequence  was,  my  daughter  remained 
with  me-  and  the  consequence  of  that,  in  its 
turn,  waslhc  first  serious  quarrel  that  happened 
about  the  Secret. 

"  The  circumstance  took  place  long  after  the 
time  I  have  just  been  writing  of.  I  had  been 
settled  for  years  in  the  new  town ;  and  was 
steadily  living  down  my  bad  character,  and 
slowly  gaining  ground  among  the  respectable 
inhabitants.  It  helped  me  forward  greatly  to- 
ward this  object  to  have  my  daughter  witli  me. 
Her  harmlessness,  and  her  fancy  for  dressing 
in  white,  excited  a  certain  amount  of  symjiathy. 
I  left  off  opposing  her  favorite  whim  on  that  ac- 
count, because  some  of  the  sympathy  was  sure, 
in  course  of  time,  to  fall  to  my  share.  Some  of 
it  did  fall.  I  date  my  getting  a  choice  of  the 
two  l)est  sittings  to  let  in  the  church  from  that 


224 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


BEG   MT   PARDON,   DIRECTLY, 


the  clergyman's  first 


bow 


time ;   and  I  date 

from  my  getting  the  sittings, 

"Well,  being  settled  in  this  way,  I  received 
a  letter  one  morning  from  that  highly-horn  gen- 
tleman (now  deceased),  whom  you  and  I  know 
of,  in  answer  to  one  of  mine,  warning  him,  ac- 
cording to  agreement,  of  my  wishing  to  leave 
the  town,  for  a  little  cliange  of  air  and  scene. 
The  rnflfianly  side  of  him  must  have  been  npper- 
most,  I  suppose,  when  he  got  my  letter,  for  he 
wrote  back,  I'efusing  mc,  in  such  abominably  in- 
solent language,  that  I  lost  all  command  over 
myself,  and  abused  him,  in  my  daughter's  pres- 
ence, as  '  a  low  impostor,  whom  I  could  ruin  for 
life,  if  I  chose  to  open  my  lips  and  let  out  his 
secret.'  I  said  no  more  about  him  than  that; 
being  brought  to  my  senses,  as  soon  as  those 
words  had  escaped  me,  by  the  sight  of  my  daugh- 
ter's face  looking  eagerly  and  curiously  at  mine. 
I  instantly  ordered  lier  out  of  the  room  until  I 
had  composed  myself  again. 

"]\Iy  sensations  were  not  pleasant,  I  can  tell 
you,  when  I  came  to  reflect  on  my  own  folly. 
Anne  had  been  more  than  usually  crazy  and 
queer  that  year ;  and  when  I  tlu)Ught  of  the 
chance  there  miglit  be  of  licr  rejicating  my  words 
in  the  town,  and  mentioning  /lis  name  in  con- 
ucction  with  them,  if  iuqui.sitive  people  got  hold 


of  her,  I  was  finely  terrified  at  the  possible  con- 
sequences. jNIy  worst  fears  for  myself,  my  worst 
dread  of  what  he  might  do,  led  me  no  farther 
than  this.  I  was  cpiite  unprepared  for  what 
really  did  happen,  only  the  next  day. 

"  On  that  next  day,  without  any  warning  to 
me  to  expect  him,  he  came  to  tlie  house. 

"  His  first  words,  and  the  tone  in  which  he 
spoke  them,  surly  as  it  was,  showed  me  jdainly 
enough  that  he  had  repented  already  of  his  in- 
solent answer  to  my  application,  and  that  he 
had  come  (in  a  mighty  bad  temper)  to  try  and 
set  matters  right  again  before  it  was  too  late. 
Seeing  my  daughter  in  the  room  with  me  (I  had 
been  afraid  to  let  her  out  of  my  sight  after  wluit 
had  happened  the  day  before),  he  ordered  her 
away.  They  neither  of  them  liked  eacii  other; 
and'  he  vented  the  ill-temper  on  /icr  whicli  he 
was  afraid  to  sliow  to  me. 

"  'Leave  us,'  he  said,  looking  at  her  over  his 
shoulder.  8ho  looked  l)ack  over  Iter  shoulder, 
and  waited  as  if  she  didn't  care  to  go.  '  Do  you 
hear  ?'  he  roared  out ;  ' leave  the  room.'  '  Speak 
to  me  civilly,'  says  slie,  getting  red  in  the  face. 
'Turn  tlic  idiot  out,'  says  he,  looking  my  way. 
She  had  always  had  crazy  notions  of  her  own 
about  Iier  dignity  ;  and  tliat  word.  '  idiot,'  ujjset 
her  in  a  moment.     Before  I  could  interfere  she 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


225 


stepped  up  to  him  in  a  fine  passion.  '  Beg  my 
pardon,  directly,'  says  she,  'or  I'll  make  it  the 
worse  for  you.  I'll  let  out  your  Secret!  lean 
ruin  you  for  life,  if  I  choose  to  open  my  lips.' 
My  own  words  ! — repeated  exactly  from  what  I 
had  said  the  day  before — repeated  in  his  pres- 
ence as  if  they  had  come  from  herself.  He  sat 
speechless,  as  white  as  the  paper  I  am  writing 
on,  while  I  pushed  her  out  of  the  room.  When 
he  recovered  himself — 

"No!  I  am  too  respectable  a  woman  to  men- 
tion what  he  said  when  he  recovered  himself. 
My  pen  is  the  pen  of  a  member  of  the  rector's 
congregation,  and  a  subscriber  to  the  'Wednes- 
day Lectures  on  Justification  by  Faith' — how 
can  you  expect  me  to  employ  it  in  writing  bad 
language?  Suppose,  for  yourself,  the  raging, 
swearing  frenzy  of  the  lowest  ruffian  in  England ; 
and  let  us  get  on  together  as  fast  as  may  be  to 
the  way  in  which  it  all  ended. 

"It  ended,  as  you  probably  guess  by  this  time, 
in  his  insisting  on  securing  his  own  safety  by 
shutting  her  up.  I  tried  to  set  things  right.  I 
told  him  that  she  had  merely  repeated,  like  a 
parrot,  the  words  she  had  heard  me  say,  and 
that  she  knew  no  particulars  whatever,  because 
I  had  mentioned  none.  I  explained  that  she 
had  affected,  out  of  crazy  spite  against  him,  to 
know  what  she  really  did  not  know ;  that  she 
only  wanted  to  threaten  him  and  aggravate  him 
for  speaking  to  her  as  he  had  just  spoken ;  and 
that  my  unlucky  words  gave  her  just  tlxe  chance 
of  doing  mischief  of  which  she  was  in  search. 
I  referred  him  to  other  queer  ways  of  hers,  and 
to  his  own  experience  of  the  vagaries  of  half- 
witted people  —  it  was  all  to  no  purpose  —  he 
would  not  believe  me  on  my  oath — he  was  ab- 
solutely certain  I  had  betrayed  the  whole  Se- 
cret. In  short,  he  would  hear  of  nothing  but 
shutting  her  up. 

"Under  these  circumstances  I  did  my  duty 
as  a  mother.  'No  pauper  Asylum,'  I  said;  'I 
won't  have  her  put  in  a  pauper  Asylum.  A 
Private  Establishment,  if  i/oii  please.  I  have 
ray  feelings,  as  a  mother,  and  my  character  to 
])reserve  in  the  town ;  and  I  will  submit  to  no- 
thing but  a  Private  Establishment,  of  the  sort 
which  my  genteel  neighbors  would  choose  for 
afflicted  relatives  of  their  own.'  Those  were  my 
words.  It  is  gi'atifying  to  me  to  reflect  that  I 
did  my  duty.  Though  never  overfond  of  my 
late  daughter,  I  had  a  proper  pride  about  her. 
No  pauper  stain — thanks  to  my  firmness  and 
resolution — ever  rested  on  my  child. 

"  Having  carried  my  point  (which  I  did  the 
inore  easily  in  consequence  of  the  facilities 
offered  by  private  Asylums),  I  could  not  refuse 
to  admit  that  there  were  certain  advantages 
pained  by  shutting  her  up.  In  the  first  place, 
she  was  taken  excellent  care  of — being  treated 
(as  I  took  care  to  mention  in  the  town)  on  the 
footing  of  a  Lady.  In  the  second  place,  slie  was 
kept  awa}'  from  Welmingham,  where  she  might 
have  set  people  suspecting  and  inquiring  by  re- 
peating my  own  incautious  words. 

"The  only  drawback  of  putting  her  under  re- 
straint was  a  very  slight  one.  We  merely  turned 
her  empty  boast  about  knowing  the  Secret  into 
a  fixed  delusion.  Having  first  spoken  in  sheer 
crazy  spitefulness  against  the  man  who  had 
offended  her,  she  was  cunning  enough  to  see 
that  she  had  seriously  frightened  him,  and  sharp 
P 


enough  afterward  to  discover  that  he  was  con-- 
cerned  in  shutting  her  up.  The  consequence 
was  she  flamed  out  into  a  perfect  frenzy  of  pas- 
sion against  him,  going  to  the  Asylum  ;  and  the 
first  words  she  said  to  the  nurses,  after  they  had 
quieted  her,  were,  that  she  was  put  in  confine- 
ment for  knowing  his  secret,  and  that  she  meant 
to  open  her  lips  and  ruin  him  when  the  right 
time  came. 

"She  may  have  said  the  same  thing  to  you 
when  you  thoughtlessly  assisted  her  esca])e.  She 
certainly  said  it  (as  I  heard  last  summer)  to 
the  unfortunate  woman  who  married  our  sweet- 
tempered,  nameless  gentleman,  lately  deceased. 
If  either  you,  or  that  unlucky  lady,  had  ques- 
tioned my  daughter  closely,  and  "had  insisted 
on  her  explaining  what  she  really  meant,  you 
would  have  found  her  lose  all  her  self-import- 
ance suddenly,  and  get  vacant  and  restless  and 
confused ;  you  would  have  discovered  that  I  am 
writing  nothing  here  but  the  plain  truth.  She 
knew  that  there  was  a  Secret — she  knew  who 
was  connected  with  it — she  knew  who  would 
suffer  by  its  being  known — and  beyond  that, 
whatever  airs  of  importance  she  may  have  given 
hei'self,  whatever  crazy  boasting  she  may  have 
indulged  in  with  strangers,  she  never  to  her 
dying  day  knew  more. 

"Have  I  satisfied  your  curiosity?  I  liave 
taken  pains  enough  to  satisfy  it,  at  any  rate. 
There  is  really  nothing  else  I  have  to  tell  you 
about  myself  or  my  daughter.  My  worst  re- 
sponsibilities, so  far  as  she  was  concerned,  were 
all  over  when  she  was  secured  in  the  Asylum. 
I  had  a  form  of  letter  relating  to  the  circum- 
stances under  which  she  was  shut  up  given  me 
to  write,  in  answer  to  one  Miss  Halcombe,  who 
was  curious  in  the  matter,  and  who  must  have 
heard  plenty  of  lies  about  me  from  a  certain 
tongue  well  accustomed  to  the  telling  of  the 
same.  And  I  did  what  I  could  afterward  to 
trace  my  runaway  daughter,  and  pi'eveiit  her 
from  doing  mischief,  by  making  inquiries  my- 
self in  the  neighborhood  where  she  was  falsely 
reported  to  have  been  seen.  But  these  are  tri- 
fles, of  little  or  no  interest  to  you  after  what 
you  have  heard  already. 

"  So  far,  I  have  written  in  the  friendliest  pos- 
sible spii-it.  But  I  can  not  close  this  letter  with- 
out adding  a  word  here  of  serious  remonstrance 
and  reproof,  addressed  to  yourself.  In  the 
course  of  your  personal  interview  with  me,  you 
audaciously  referred  to  my  late  daughter's  par- 
entage on  the  father's  side,  as  if  that  parent- 
age was  a  matter  of  doubt.  This  was  highly 
improper,  and  very  ungentleraanlike  on  your 
part !  If  we  see  each  other  again,  remember, 
if  you  please,  that  I  will  allow  no  liberties  to  be 
taken  with  my  reputation,  and  that  the  moral 
atmosphere  of  Welmingham  (to  use  a  favorite 
expression  of  my  friend  the  rector's)  must  not 
be  tainted  by  loose  conversation  of  any  kind. 
If  you  allow  yourself  to  doubt  that  my  husband 
was  Anne's  father,  you  personally  insult  me  in 
the  grossest  manner.  If  you  have  felt,  and  if 
you  still  continue  to  feel,  an  unhallowed  curios- 
ity on  this  subject,  I  recommend  you,  in  your 
own  interests,  to  check  it  at  once  and  forever. 
On  this  side  of  the  grave,  Mr.  Ilartright,  what- 
ever may  happen  on  the  other,  that  curiosity 
will  never  be  gratified. 

"Perhaps,  after  what  I  have  just  said,  you 


226 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


will  see  the  necessity  of  wi-iting  me  an  apology. 
Do  so,  and  I  will  willingly  receive  it.  I  will 
afterward,  if  your  wishes  point  to  &  second  in- 
terview with  me,  go  a  step  farther,  and  receive 
you.  My  circumstances  only  enable  me  to  in- 
vite you  to  tea — not  that  they  are  at  all  altered 
for  the  worse  by  what  has  happened.  I  have 
always  lived,  as  I  thiuk  I  told  you,  well  within 
my  income ;  and  I  have  saved  enough,  in  the 
last  twenty  years,  to  make  me  quite  comfortable 
for  the  rest  of  my  life.  It  is  not  my  intention 
to  leave  Welmingham.  There  are  one  or  two 
little  advantages  which  I  have  still  to  gain  in 
the  town.  The  clergyman  bows  to  me,  as  you 
saw.  He  is  married,  and  his  wife  is  not  quite 
so  civil.  I  propose  to  join  the  Dorcas  Society, 
and  I  mean  to  make  the  clergyman's  wife  bow 
to  me  next. 

"If  you  favor  me  with  your  company,  pray 
understand  that  the  conversation  must  be  en- 
tirely on  general  subjects.  Any  attempted  ref- 
erence to  this  letter  will  be  quite  useless — I  am 
determined  not  to  acknowledge  having  written 
it.  The  evidence  has  been  destroyed  in  the 
fire,  I  know ;  but  I  think  it  desirable  to  err  on 
the  side  of  caution,  nevertheless.  On  this  ac- 
count no  names  are  mentioned  here,  nor  is  any 
signature  attached  to  these  lines :  the  hand- 
writing is  disguised  throughout,  and  I  mean  to 
deliver  tlie  letter  myself  under  circumstances 
which  will  prevent  all  fear  of  its  being  traced  to 
ray  house.  You  can  have  no  possible  cause  to 
complain  of  these  precautions,  seeing  that  they 
do  not  affect  the  information  I  here  communi- 
cate, in  consideration  of  the  special  indulgence 
which  you  have  deserved  at  my  hands.  My 
bour  for  tea  is  half  past  five,  and  my  buttered 
toast  waits  for  nobody." 

XI. 

My  first  impulse,  after  reading  this  extraor- 
dinary letter,  was  to  destroy  it.  The  hardened, 
shameless  depravity  of  the  whole  comj)osition, 
from  beginning  to  end — the  atrocious  perver- 
sity of  mind  which  persistently  associated  me 
with  a  calamity  for  which  I  was  in  no  sense 
answerable,  and  with  a  death  which  I  had 
risked  my  own  life  in  trying  to  avert — so  dis- 
gusted me,  that  I  was  on  the  point  of  tearing 
the  letter,  when  a  consideration  suggested  it- 
self; which  warned  me  to  wait  a  little  before  I 
destroyed  it. 

This  consideration  was  entirely  unconnected 
with  Sir  Percival.  The  information  communi- 
cated to  me,  so  far  as  it  concerned  him,  did 
little  more  than  confirm  the  conclusions  at 
which  I  had  already  arrived.  He  had  com- 
mitted his  offense  as  I  liad  supposed  him  to 
have  committed  it;  and  the  absence  of  all  ref- 
erence, on  Mrs.  Catherick's  part,  to  the  dupli- 
cate register  at  Knowlesbury,  strengthened  my 
previous  conviction  that  the  existence  of  the 
book,  and  tlie  risk  of  detection  which  it  implied, 
must  have  been  necessarily  unknown  to  Sir 
Percival.  My  interest  in  the  question  of  the 
forgery  was  now  at  an  end ;  and  my  only  ob- 
ject in  keeping  the  letter  was  to  make  it  of 
some  future  service  in  clearing  up  the  last  mys- 
tery that  still  remaiueil  to  balHe  me — the  par- 
entage of  Anne  Catherick,  on  the  fatiier's  side. 
Tiiere  were  one  or  two  sentences  dro])ped  in 
her  mother's  narrative,  which  it  might  be  usc- 


It'll i  i 


p-0' 


1  t 


ful  to  refer  to  again,  when  matters  of  more  im- 
mediate importance  allowed  me  leisure  to  search 
for  the  missing  evidence.  I  did  not  despair  of 
still  finding  that  evidence;  and  I  had  lost  none 
of  my  anxiety  to  discover  it,  for  I  had  lost  none 
of  my  interest  in  tracing  the  father  of  the  poor 
creature  who  now  lay  at  rest  in  Mrs.  Eairlie's 
grave. 

Accordingly,  I  sealed  up  the  letter  and  put 
it  away  carefully  in  my  pocket-book,  to  be  re-* 
ferred  to  again  when  the  time  came. 

The  next  day  was  my  last  in  Hampshire. 
When  I  had  appeared  again  before  the  magis- 
trate at  Knowlesbury,  and  when  I  had  attended 
at  the  adjourned  Inquest,  I  should  be  free  to 
return  to  London  by  the  afternoon  or  the  even- 
ing train. 

My  first  errand  in  the  morning  was,  as  usual, 
to  the  post-office.  The  letter  from  Marian  was 
there ;  but  I  thought,  when  it  was  Iiandcd  to 
me,  tliat  it  felt  unusually  light.  I  anxiously 
opened  the  envelope.  There  was  nothing  in- 
side but  a  small  strij)  of  jiapcr  folded  in  two. 
The  few  blotted,  hurriedly-written  lines  which 
were  traced  on  it  contained  these  words : 

"  Come  back  as  soon  as  you  can.  I  have  been 
obliged  to  move.  Come  to  Gower's  Walk,  Ful- 
ham  (number  five).  I  will  be  on  the  look-out 
for  you.  Don't  be  alarmed  about  us;  we  are 
both  safe  and  well.    r>ut  come  back. — IMarian." 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


227 


The  news  which  those  lines  contained — news 
which  I  instantly  associated  with  some  attempt- 
ed treachery  on  the  part  of  Count  Fosco — fairly 
ovenvhelmed  me.  I  stood  breathless,  with  the 
paper  crumpled  up  in  my  hand.  What  had 
happened  ?  What  subtle  wickedness  had  the 
Count  planned  and  executed  in  my  absence? 
A  night  had  passed  since  Marian's  note  was 
written — hours  must  elapse  still  before  I  could 
get  back  to  them — some  new  disaster  might 
have  happened  already  of  which  I  was  igno- 
rant. And  here,  miles  and  miles  away  from 
them,  here  I  must  remain — held,  doubly  held, 
at  the  disposal  of  the  law ! 

I  hardly  know  to  what  forgetfulness  of  my 
obligations  anxiety  and  alarm  might  not  have 
tempted  me,  but  for  the  quieting  influence  of 
my  faith  in  Marian.  Nothing  composed  me, 
when  I  began  to  recover  myself  a  little,  but  the 
remembrance  of  her  energy,  fidelity,  and  ad- 
mirable quickness  of  resolution.  My  absolute 
reliance  on  her  was  the  one  earthly  considera- 
tion which  helped  me  to  restrain  myself,  and 
gave  me  courage  to  wait.  The  Inquest  was  the 
first  of  the  impediments  in  the  way  of  my  free- 
dom of  action.  I  attended  it  at  the  appointed 
time — the  legal  formalities  requiring  my  pres- 
ence in  the  room,  but,  as  it  turned  out,  not  call- 
ing on  me  to  repeat  my  evidence.  This  useless 
delay  was  a  hard  trial,  although  I  did  my  best 
to  quiet  my  impatience  by  following  the  course 
of  the  proceedings  as  closely  as  I  could. 

The  London  solicitor  of  the  deceased  (Mr. 
Merriman)  was  among  the  persons  present.  But 
he  was  quite  unable  to  assist  the  objects  of  the 
inquiry.  He  could  only  say  that  he  was  inex- 
|)ressibly  shocked  and  astonished,  and  that  he 
could  throw  no  light  whatever  on  the  mysterious 
circumstances  of  the  case.  At  intervals  during 
the  adjourned  investigation,  he  suggested  ques- 
tions which  the  Coroner  put,  but  wliich  led  to 
no  results.  After  a  patient  inquiry,  which  last- 
ed nearly  three  hours,  and  which  exhausted  ev- 
ery available  source  of  information,  the  jury  pro- 
nounced the  customary  verdict  in  cases  of  sud- 
den death  by  accident.  They  added  to  the  for- 
mal decision  a  statement  that  there  had  been 
no  evidence  to  show  how  the  keys  had  been 
abstracted,  how  the  fire  had  been  caused,  or 
what  the  purpose  was  for  wliich  the  deceased 
had  entered  the  vestry.  This  act  closed  the  pro- 
ceedings. The  legal  representative  of  the  dead 
man  was  left  to  provide  for  the  necessities  of 
the  interment,  and  the  witnesses  were  free  to 
retire. 

Resolved  not  to  lose  a  minute  in  getting  to 
Knowlesbury,  I  paid  my  bill  at  the  hotel,  and 
hired  a  fly  to  take  me  to  the  town.  A  gentle- 
man who  heard  me  give  the  order,  and  who  saw 
that  I  was  going  alone,  informed  me  that  he 
lived  in  the  neighborhood  of  Knowlesbury,  and 
asked  if  I  would  have  any  objection  to  his  get- 
ting home  by  sharing  the  fly  with  me.  I  accept- 
ed his  proposal  as  a  matter  of  course. 

Our  conversation  during  the  drive  was  nat- 
urally occupied  by  the  one  absorbing  subject  of 
local  interest.  My  new  acquaintance  had  some 
knowledge  of  the  late  Sir  Percival's  solicitor; 
and  he  and  Mr.  Merriman  had  been  discussing 
the  state  of  the  deceased  gentleman's  affairs^ 
and  the  succession  to  the  property.  Sir  Perci- 
val's embarrassments  were  so  well  known  all 


over  the  county,  that  his  solicitor  could  only 
nvike  a  virtue  of  necessity  and  plainly  acknowl- 
edge them.  He  had  died  without  leaving  a 
will,  and  he  had  no  personal  property  to  be- 
queath, even  if  he  had  made  one — the  whole 
fortune  which  he  had  derived  from  his  wife  hav- 
ing been  swallowed  up  by  his  creditors.  The 
heir  to  the  estate  (Sir  Percival  having  left  no 
issue)  was  a  son  of  Sir  Felix  Clyde's  first  cousin 
— an  officer  in  command  of  an  ICast  Indiaman. 
He  would  find  liis  unexpected  inheritance  sadly 
encumbered ;  but  the  property  would  recover 
with  time,  and,  if  "the  captain"  was  careful, 
he  might  find  himself  a  rich  man  yet  before  he 
died. 

Absorbed  as  I  was  in  the  one  idea  of  getting 
to  London,  this  information  (which  events  proved 
to  be  perfectly  correct)  had  an  interest  of  its 
own  to  attract  my  attention.  I  thought  it  justi- 
fied me  in  keeping  secret  my  discovery  of  Sir 
Percival's  fraud.  The  heir  whose  rights  he  had 
usurped  was  the  heir  who  would  now  have  the 
estate.  The  income  from  it,  for  the  last  three- 
and-twenty  years,  which  should  properly  have 
been  his,  and  which  the  dead  man  had  squan- 
dered to  the  last  farthing,  was  gone  beyond 
recall.  If  I  spoke,  my  speaking  would  confer 
advantage  on  no  one.  If  I  ke])t  tlie  secret,  my 
silence  concealed  the  character  of  the  man  who 
had  cheated  Laura  into  marrying  him.  For 
her  sake,  I  wished  to  conceal  it — for  her  sake, 
still,  I  tell  this  story  under  feigned  names. 

I  parted  with  my  chance  companion  at 
Knowlesbury,  and  ^vent  at  once  to  the  town- 
hall.  As  I  had  anticipated,  no  one  was  present 
to  pi'osectrte  tlie  case  against  me  :  the  necessary 
formalities  were  observed,  and  I  was  discharged. 
On  leaving  the  court,  a  letter  from  Mr.  Dawson 
was  put  into  my  hand.  It  informed  me  that  he 
was  absent  on  professional  duty,  and  it  reitera- 
ted the  offer  I  Jiad  already  received  from  him 
of  any  assistance  which  I  might  require  at  his 
hands.  I  wrote  back,  warmly  acknowledging 
my  obligations  for  his  kindness,  and  apologiz- 
ing for  not  expressing  my  thanks  personally,  in 
consequence  of  my  immediate  recall,  on  pressing 
business,  to  town. 

Half  an  hour  later  I  was  speeding  back  to 
London  by  the  express  train. 

XI  r. 

It  was  between  nine  and  ten  o'clock  before  I 
reached  Fulham,  and  found  my  way  to  Gower's 
Walk. 

Both  Laura  and  Marian  came  to  the  door  to 
let  me  in.  I  think  we  had  hardly  known  how 
close  the  tie  was  which  bound  us  three  together 
until  the  evening  came  whicli  united  us  again. 
We  met  as  if  we  had  been  parted  for  months, 
instead  of  for  a  few  days  only.  Marian's  face 
was  sadly  worn  and  anxious.  I  saw  who  had 
known  all  the  danger,  and  borne  all  tlie  trouble 
in  my  absence,  the  moment  I  looked  at  her. 
Laura's  brighter  looks  and  better  spirits  told  me 
how  carefully  she  had  been  spared  all  knowl- 
edge of  the  dreadful  death  at  Welmingham,  and 
of  the  true  reason  for  our  change  of  abode. 

The  stir  of  the  removal  seemed  to  have  clieer- 
ed  and  interested  her.  She  only  spoke  of  it  as 
a  happy  thought  of  Marian's  to  surprise  me,  on 
my  return,  with  a  change  from  the  close,  noisy 
street,   to  the  jdeasant  neighborhood  of  ti'ces 


228 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


and  fields  and  the  river.  She  was  full  of  proj- 
ects for  the  future — of  the  drawings  she  was  to 
finish ;  of  the  purchasers  I  had  found  in  the 
country,  who  were  to  buy  them  ;  of  the  shilhngs 
and  sixpences  she  had  saved  till  her  purse  was 
so  hea\'y  that  she  j>roudly  asked  me  to  weigh  it 
in  my  own  hand.  The  change  for  the  better 
which  had  been  wrought  in  her  during  the  few 
days  of  my  absence  was  a  surprise  to  me  for 
which  I  was  quite  unprepared,  and  for  all  the 
unspeakable  happiness  of  seeing  it  I  was  indebt- 
ed to  Marian's  courage  and  to  Marian's  love. 

When  Laura  had  left  us,  and  when  we  could 
speak  to  one  another  without  restraint,  I  tried 
to  give  some  expression  to  the  gratitude  and 
ihe  admiration  which  filled  my  heart.  But  the 
generous  creature  would  not  wait  to  hear  me. 
That  sublime  self-forgetfulness  of  women,  which 
yields  so  much  and  asks  so  little,  turned  all  her 
thoughts  from  herself  to  me,  and  made  her  first 
interest  the  interest  of  knowing  what  I  had  felt 
on  receiving  her  note  that  morning,  and  what 
iliflScuhies  I  might  have  encountered  in  hasten- 
ing my  return  to  London. 

"I  had  only  a  moment  left  before  post-time," 
she  said,  "or  I  should  have  written  less  abrupt- 
ly. You  look  worn  and  weaiy,  Walter ;  I  am 
afraid  my  letter  must  have  seriously  alarmed 
you  ?" 

"Only  at  first,"  I  replied.  "My  mind  was 
quieted,  ]\Iarian,  by  my  trust  in  you.  Was  I 
right  in  attributing  this  sudden  change  of  jilace 
to  some  threatened  annoyance  on  the  part  of 
Count  Fosco?" 

"  Perfectly  right,"  she  said.  "  I  saw  him 
vesterday ;  and,  worse  than  that,  Walter,  I  spoke 
10  him." 

"Spoke  to  him!  Did  he  know  where  we 
lived?     Did  he  come  to  the  house?" 

"He  did.  To  the  house,  but  not  up  stairs. 
Laura  never  saw  him  ;  Laura  suspects  nothing. 
I  will  tell  you  how  it  happened :  the  danger,  I 
believe  and  hope,  is  over  now.  Yesterday  I 
was  in  the  sitting-room  at  our  old  lodgings. 
Lain-awas  drawing  at  the  table,  and  I  was  walk- 
ing about  and  setting  things  to  rights.  I  passed 
the  window,  and,  as  I  passed  it,  looked  out  into 
the  street.  There,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
^vav,  I  saw  the  Count,  with  a  man  talking  to 
hiiii— " 

"  Did  he  notice  you  at  the  window?" 

"No — at  least  I  thought  not.  I  was  too  vio- 
lently startled  to  be  quite  sure." 

"Who  was  the  other  man?     A  stranger?" 

"Not  a  stranger,  Walter.  As  soon  as  I  could 
ilraw  my  breath  again  I  recognized  him.  He 
was  the  owner  of  the  Lunatic  Asylum." 

"Was  the  Count  pointing  out  the  house  to 
him  ?" 

"No;  they  were  talking  together  as  if  they 
had  accidentally  met  in  the  street.  I  remained 
at  the  window  looking  at  them  from  behind  the 
curtain.  If  I  had  turned  round,  and  if  Laura 
had  seen  my  face  at  that  moment —  Thank 
God,  she  was  absorbed  over  her  drawing !  They 
soon  parted.  The  man  from  the  Asylum  went 
one  way,  and  the  Count  the  other.  I  began  to 
liope  they  were  in  the  street  by  chance,  till  I 
saw  the  Count  come  back,  stop  opposite  to  us 
again,  take  out  liis  card-case  and  ])oncil,  write 
something,  and  then  cross  the  road  to  the  shoj) 
below  us.     I  ran  past  Laura  before  she  could 


see  me,  and  said  I  had  forgotten  something  up 
stairs.  As  soon  as  I  was  out  of  the  room  I 
went  down  to  the  first  landing  and  waited:  I 
was  determined  to  stop  him  if  he  tried  to  come 
up  stairs.  He  made  no  such  attempt.  The 
girl  from  the  shop  came  through  the  door  into 
the  passage,  with  his  card  in  her  hand — a  large 
gilt  card,  with  his  name,  and  a  coronet  above 
it,  and  these  lines  underneath  in  pencil:  'Dear 
lady'  (yes !  the  villain  could  address  me  in  that 
way  still) — '  dear  lady,  one  word,  I  implore  you, 
on  a  matter  serious  to  us  both.'  If  one  can 
think  at  all  in  serious  difiiculties,  one  thinks 
quick.  I  felt  directly  that  it  might  be  a  fatal 
mistake  to  leave  myself  and  to  leave  you  in  the 
dark  where  such  a  man  as  the  Count  was  con- 
cerned. I  felt  that  the  doubt  of  what  he  might 
do  in  your  absence  would  be  ten  times  more 
trying  to  me  if  I  declined  to  see  him  than  if  I 
consented.  'Ask  the  gentleman  to  wait  in  the 
shop,'  I  said.  '  I  will  be  with  him  in  a  moment.' 
I  ran  u])  stairs  for  my  bonnet,  being  determined 
not  to  let  him  speak  to  me  in-doors.  I  knew 
his  deep  ringing  voice,  and  I  was  afraid  Laura 
might  hear  it,  even  in  the  shop.  In  less  than  a 
minute  I  was  down  again  in  the  passage,  and 
had  ojiened  the  door  into  the  street.  He  came 
round  to  meet  me  from  the  shop.  There  he 
was,  in  deep  mourning,  with  his  smooth  bow 
and  his  deadly  smile,  and  some  idle  boys  and 
women  near  him  staring  at  his  great  size,  his 
fine  black  clothes,  and  his  large  cane  with  the 
gold  knob  to  it.  All  the  horrible  time  at  Black- 
water  came  back  to  me  the  moment  a  set  eyes 
on  him.  All  the  old  loathing  crept  and  crawled 
through  me,  when  he  took  ofi'  his  hat  with  a 
flourish,  and  spoke  to  me  as  if  we  had  parted  on 
the  friendliest  terms  hardly  a  day  since." 

"You  remember  what  he  said  ?" 

"  I  can't  repeat  it,  Walter.  You  shall  inow 
directly  what  he  said  about  ?/o?«,  but  I  can't  re- 
peat what  he  said  to  me.  It  was  worse  than 
the  polite  insolence  of  his  letter.  My  hands 
tingled  to  strike  him,  as  if  I  had  been  a  man ! 
I  only  kept  them  quiet  by  tearing  his  card  to 
pieces  under  my  shawl.  Without  saying  a  word 
on  my  side  I  walked  away  from  the  house  (for 
fear  of  Laura  seeing  us) ;  and  he  followed,  pro- 
testing softly  all  the  way.  In  the  first  by-street 
I  turned,  and  asked  liim  what  he  wanted  with 
me.  He  wanted  two.things.  First,  if  I  had  no 
objection,  to  express  his  sentiments.  I  declined 
to  hear  them.  Secondly,  to  repeat  the  warning 
in  his  letter.  I  asked  what  occasion  there  Mas 
for  repeating  it.  He  bowed  and  smiled,  and 
said  he  would  explain.  The  explanation  ex- 
actly confirmed  the  fears  I  expressed  before  you 
left  us.  I  told  you,  if  you  remember,  that  Sir 
Percival  would  be  too  headstrong  to  take  liis 
friend's  advice  where  you  were  concerned,  and 
that  there  was  no  danger  to  be  dreaded  from  the 
Count  till  his  own  interests  were  threatened,  and 
he  was  roused  into  acting  for  himself?" 

"I  recollect,  Marian." 

"  Well,  so  it  lias  really  turned  out.  The 
Count  offered  his  advice,  but  it  was  refused. 
Sir  Percival  would  only  take  counsel  of  his  own 
violence,  his  own  obstinacy,  and  his  own  hatred 
oi you.  The  Count  let  him  have  liis  way;  first 
privately  ascertaining,  in  case  of  his  own  in- 
terests being  threatened  next,  where  wc  lived. 
You  were  followed,  Walter,  on  returning  here. 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


229 


"avhen  he  took  off  his  hat  with  a  flourish,"  etc 


after  your  first  journey  to  Hampshire,  by  the 
lawyer's  men  for  some  distance  from  the  rail- 
way, and  by  the  Count  himself  to  the  door  of 
the  house.  How  he  contrived  to  escape  beinff 
seen  by  you  he  did  not  tell  me ;  but  he  found 
us  out  on  that  occasion,  and  in  that  way.  Hav- 
ing made  the  discovery,  he  took  no  advantacje 
of  it  till  the  news  reached  him  of  Sir  Percival's 
death ;  and  then,  as  I  told  you,  he  acted  for  him- 
self, because  he  believed  you  would  next  proceed 
against  the  dead  man's  partner  in  the  conspira- 
cy. He  at  once  made  his  arrangements  to  meet 
the  owner  of  the  Asylum  in  London,  and  to 
take  him  to  the  place  where  his  runaway  pa- 
tient was  hidden  ;  believing  that  the  results, 
whichever  way  they  ended,  would  be  to  involve 
you  in  interminable  legal  disputes  and  difficul- 
ties, and  to  tie  your  hands  for  all  purposes  of 
offense,  so  far  as  he  was  concerned.  That  was 
his  purpose  on  his  own  confession  to  me.  The 
only  consideration  which  made  him  hesitate  at 
the  last  moment — " 

"Yes?" 

"It  is  hard  to  acknowledge  it,  Walter,  and 
yet  I  must !  /  was  the  only  consideration.  No 
words  can  say  how  degraded  I  feel  in  my  own 
estimation  when  I  think  of  it ;  but  the  one  weak 
point  in  that  man's  iron  character  is  the  horrible 


admii-ation  he  feels  for  vie.  I  have  tried,  for  thv 
sake  of  my  own  self-respect,  to  disbelieve  it  aB 
long  as  I  could  ;  but  his  looks,  his  actions,  force 
on  me  the  shameful  conviction  of  the  truth. 
The  eyes  of  that  monster  of  wickedness  moist- 
ened while  he  w-as  speaking  to  me — they  did, 
Walter!  He  declared  that,  at  the  moment  of 
pointing  out  the  house  to  the  doctor,  he  thought 
of  my  misery,  if  I  was  separated  from  Laura — of 
my  responsibility,  if  I  was  called  on  to  answer 
for  eftecting  her  escape  ;  and  he  risked  the  worst 
that  you  could  do  to  him,  the  second  time,  for 
my  sake.  All  he  asked  was  that  I  would  re- 
member the  sacrifice,  and  restrain  your  rashness, 
in  my  own  interests — interests  which  he  might 
never  be  able  to  consult  again.  I  made  no  such 
bargain  with  him ;  I  would  have  died  first.  But 
believe  him  or  not — whether  it  is  true  or  false 
that  he  sent  the  doctor  away  with  an  excuse — 
one  thing  is  certain,  I  saw  the  man  leave  him 
without  so  much  as  a  glance  at  our  window  or 
even  at  our  side  of  the  way." 

"I  believe  it,  Marian.  The  best  men  are  not 
consistent  in  good ;  why  should  the  worst  men 
be  consistent  in  evil  ?  At  the  same  time,  I  sus- 
pect him  of  merely  attempting  to  frighten  you, 
by  threatening  what  he  can  not  really  do.  I 
doubt  his  power  of  annoying  us,  by  means  of  the 


230 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


ownei-  of  the  Asylum,  now  that  Sir  Percival  is 
dead,  and  Mrs.  Catherick  is  free  from  all  con- 
trol. But  let  me  hear  more.  What  did  the 
Count  say  of  me  ?" 

"  He  spoke  last  of  you.  His  eyes  brightened 
and  hardened,  and  his  manner  changed  to  what 
I  remember  it  in  past  times — to  that  mixture 
of  pitiless  resolution  and  mountebank  mockery 
which  makes  it  so  impossible  to  fathom  him. 
'Warn  Mr.  Hartright !'  he  said,  in  his  loftiest 
manner.  '  He  has  a  man  of  brains  to  deal  with, 
a  man  who  snaps  his  big  fingers  at  the  laws  and 
conventions  of  society,  when  he  measures  him- 
self with  ME.  If  my  lamented  friend  had  taken 
my  advice  the  business  of  the  Inquest  would 
have  been  with  the  body  of  Mr.  Hartright.  But 
my  lamented  friend  was  obstinate.  See!  I 
mourn  his  loss — inwardly  in  my  soul,  outwardly 
on  my  hat.  This  trivial  crape  expresses  sensi- 
bilities which  I  summon  Mr.  Hartright  to  re- 
spect. They  may  be  transformed  to  immeasur- 
able enmities  if  he  ventures  to  disturb  them ! 
Let  him  be  content  with  what  he  has  got — with 
what  I  leave  unmolested,  for  your  sake,  to  him 
and  to  you.  Say  to  him  (with  my  compliments), 
if  he  stirs  me,  he  has  Fosco  to  deal  with.  In 
rlie  English  of  the  Popular  Tongue,  I  inform 
him — Fosco  sticks  at  nothing!  Dear  lady,  good 
Tiorning.'  His  cold  gray  eyes  settled  on  my 
face ;  he  took  off  his  hat  solemnly,  bowed,  bare- 
headed, and  left  mo." 

"Without  returning?  without  saying  more 
last  words?" 

"  He  turned  at  the  corner  of  the  street  and 
waved  his  hand,  and  then  struck  it  theatrically 


on  his  breast.  I  lost  sight  of  him  after  that. 
He  disappeared  in  the  opposite  direction  to  our 
house,  and  I  ran  back  to  Laura.  Before  I  was 
in-doors  again  I  had  made  up  my  mind  that  we 
must  go.  The  house  (especially  in  your  absence) 
was  a  place  of  danger  instead  of  a  place  of  safe- 
ty, now  tliat  the  Count  had  discovered  it.  If  1 
could  have  felt  certain  of  your  return,  I  should 
have  risked  waiting  till  you  came  back.  But  I 
was  certain  of  nothing,  and  I  acted  at  once  on 
my  own  impulse.  You  had  spoken,  before  leav- 
ing us,  of  moving  into  a  quieter  neighborhood 
and  purer  air,  for  the  sake  of  Laura's  health. 
I  had  only  to  remind  her  of  that,  and  to  suggest 
surprising  you  and  saving  you  trouble  by  man- 
aging the  move  in  vour  absence,  to  make  her 
quite  as  anxious  for  the  change  as  I  was.  She 
helped  me  to  pack  up  your  things,  and  she  ha? 
arranged  them  all  for  you  in  your  new  working- 
room  here." 

"  What  made  you  think  of  coming  to  this 
place  ?" 

"My  ignorance  of  other  localities  in  the 
neighborhood  of  London.  I  felt  the  necessity 
of  getting  as  far  away  as  possible  from  our  old 
lodgings  ;  and  I  knew  something  of  Fulham,  be- 
cause I  had  once  been  at  school  there.  I  dis- 
patched a  messenger  with  a  note,  on  the  chance 
that  the  school  might  still  be  in  existence.  It 
was  in  existence:  the  daughters  of  my  old  mis- 
tress were  carrying  it  on  for  her,  and  they  en- 
gaged this  place  from  the  instructions  I  had 
sent.  It  was  just  post-time  when  the  messenger 
returned  to  me  with  the  address  of  the  house. 
We  moved  after  dark ;  we  came  here  quite  un- 
observed. Have  I  done  right,  Walter?  Have 
I  justified  your  trust  in  me  ?" 

I  answered  her  warmly  and  gratefully,  as  1 
really  felt.  But  the  anxious  look  still  remained 
on  her  face  while  I  was  speaking,  and  the  first 
question  she  asked,  when  I  had  done,  related  to 
Count  Fosco.  I  saw  that  she  was  thinking  of 
him  now  with  a  changed  mind.  No  fresh  out- 
break of  anger  against  him,  no  new  appeal  to 
me  to  hasten  the  day  of  reckoning,  escaped  her. 
Her  conviction  that  the  man's  hateful  admira- 
tion of  herself  was  really  sincere  seemed  to 
have  increased  a  hundred-fold  her  distrust  of 
his  unfathomable  cunning,  her  inborn  dread  of 
the  wicked  energy  and  vigilance  of  all  his  facul- 
ties. Her  voice  fell  low,  her  manner  was  hesi- 
tating, her  eyes  searched  into  mine  with  an  eager 
fear,  when  she  asked  me  what  I  thought  of  his 
message,  and  what  I  meant  to  do  next,  after 
hearing  it. 

"Not  many  weeks  have  passed,  Marian,"  I 
answered,  "since  my  interview  with  INIr.  Kyrle. 
When  he  and  I  jiar'ted,  the  last  words  I  said  to 
him  about  Laura  were  tliese  :  '  Her  uncle's  house 
sliall  open  to  receive  her,  in  the  presence  of  ev- 
ery soul  who  followed  the  false  funeral  to  the 
grave ;  the  lie  that  records  her  death  shall  be 
jiublicly  erased  from  the  tomb-stone  by  the  au- 
thority" of  tlic  liead  of  the  family  ;  and  tlie  two 
men  wlio  have  wronged  her  shall  answer  for 
their  crime  to  mh,  though  the  justice  that  sits  in 
tribunals  is  powerless  to  pursue  them.'  One  of 
those  men  is  beyond  mortal  reach.  The  other 
remains — and  my  resolution  remains." 

Her  eyes  lit  up  ;  her  color  rose.  She  said  no- 
thing ;  but  I  saw  all  her  sympathies  gathering 
to  mine  in  her  face. 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


231 


"I  don't' disguise  from  myself  or  from  you," 
'I  went  on,  "  that  the  prospect  before  us  is  more 
than  doubtful.  The  risks  we  have  run  already 
are,  it  may  be,  trifles,  compared  with  tlie  risks 
that  threaten  us  in  the  future ;  but  the  venture 
shall  be  tried,  Marian,  for  all  that.  I  am  not 
rash  enough  to  measure  myself  against  such  a 
man  as  the  Count  before  I  am  well  prepared  for 
him.  I  have  learned  patience  ;  I  can  wait  my 
time.  Let  him  believe  that  his  message  has 
produced  its  effect ;  let  him  know  nothing  of 
us,  and  hear  nothing  of  us  ;  let  us  give  him  full 
time  to  feel  secure;  his  own  boastful  nature, 
unless  I  seriously  mistake  him,  will  hasten  that 
result.  This  is  one  reason  for  waiting ;  but 
there  is  another,  more  important  still.  My  po- 
sition, Marian,  toward  you  and  toward  Laura, 
ought  to  be  a  stronger  one  than  it  is  now,  before 
I  try  our  last  chance." 

She  leaned  near  to  me,  with  a  look  of  sur- 
prise. 

"How  can  it  be  stronger?"  she  asked. 
"I  will  tell  you,"  I  replied,  "when  the  time 
comes.  It  has  not  come  yet :  it  may  never  come 
at  all.  I  may  be  silent  about  it  to  Laura  for- 
ever—I must  be  silent  now,  even  to  you,  till  I 
see  for  myself  that  I  may  harmlessly  and  honor- 
ably speak.  Let  us  leave  that  subject.  There 
is  another  which  has  more  pressing  claims  on 
our  attention.  You  have  kept  Laura,  merci- 
fully kept  her,  in  ignorance  of  her  husband's 
death — " 

"  Oh,  Walter,  surely  it  must  be  long  yet  be- 
fore we  tell  her  of  it  ?" 

"No,  Marian.  Better  that  you  should  re- 
veal it  to  her  now  than  that  accident,  which  no 
one  can  guard  against,  should  reveal  it  to  her  at 
some  future  time.  vSpare  her  all  the  details — 
break  it  to  her  very  tenderly — but  tell  her  that 
he  is  dead." 

"You  have  a  reason,  Walter,  for  wishing  her 
to  know  of  her  husband's  deatli  besides  the  rea- 
son vou  have  just  mentioned?" 
"I  have." 

"  A  reason  connected  with  that  subject  which 
must  not  be  mentioned  between  us  yet  ? — which 
may  never  be  mentioned  to  Laura  at  all  ?" 

She  dwelt  on  the  last  words  meaningly. 
When  I  answered  her,  in  the  affirmative,  I 
dwelt  on  them  too. 

Her  face  grew  pale.  For  a  while  she  looked 
at  me  with  a  sad,  hesitating  interest.  An  un- 
accustomed tenderness  trembled  in  her  dark 
eyes,  and  softened  her  firm  lips  as  she  glanced 
aside  at  the  empty  chair  in  wliicli  the  dear 
companion  of  all  our  joys  and  sorrows  had  been 
sitting. 

"I  think  I  understand,"  she  said.  "  I  think 
I  owe  it  to  her  and  to  you,  Walter,  to  tell  her 
of  her  husband's  death." 

She  sighed,  and  held  my  hand  fast  for  a  mo- 
ment— then  dropped  it  abruptly,  and  left  the 
room.  On  the  next  day  Laura  knew  that  liis 
death  had  released  her,  and  that  the  error  and 
the  calamity  of  her  life  lay  buried  in  his  tomb. 

His  name  was  mentioned  among  ns  no  more. 
Thenceforward  we  sln-ank  from  tlie  slightest 
approach  to  the  subject  of  his  death,  and  in 
the  same  scrupulous  manner  Marian  and  I 
avoided  all  further  reference  to  that  other  sub- 
ject, which,  by  her  consent  and  mine,  was  not 


to  be  mentioned  between  us  yet.  It  was  not  the 
less  present  to  our  minds — it  was  rather  kept 
alive  in  them  by  the  restraint  which  we  had  im- 
posed on  ourselves.  We  both  watched  Laura 
more  anxiously  than  ever ;  sometimes  waiting 
and  hoping,  sometimes  waiting  and  fearing,  till 
the  time  came. 

By  degrees  we  returned  to  our  accustomed 
way  of  life :  it  was  the  best,  the  only  means  in 
our  power  of  helping  Laura  to  look  away  again 
from  that  past  sorrow  and  suffering  which  the 
inevitable  disclosure  had  recalled  to  her  mind. 
We  all  wanted  the  quiet  and  repose  which  we 
had  now  found.  I  resumed  the  daily  work 
which  had  been  suspended  during  my  absence 
in  Hampshire.  Our  new  lodgings  cost  us  more 
than  the  smaller  and  less  convenient  rooms 
which  we  had  left,  and  the  claim  thus  implied 
on  my  increased  exertions  was  strengthened 
by  the  doubtfulness  of  our  future  prospects. 
Emergencies  might  yet  happen  which  would 
exhaust  our  little  fund  at  the  banker's ;  and 
the  work  of  my  hands  might  be,  ultimately,  all 
we  had  to  look  to  for  su])port.  More  permanent 
and  more  lucrative  employment  than  had  yet 
been  offered  to  me  v.'as  a  necessity  of  our  posi- 
tion— a  necessity  for  which  I  now  diligently  set 
myself  to  provide. 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  the  interval  of 
rest  and  seclusion  of  which  I  am  now  writing 
entirely  suspended,  on  my  part,  all  pursuit  of 
the  one  absorbing  purpose  with  which  my 
thoughts  and  actions  are  associated  in  these 
pages.  That  purpose  was,  for  months  and 
months  yet,  never  to  relax  its  claims  on  me. 
The  slow  ripening  of  it  still  left  me  a  measure 
of  precaution  to  take,  an  obligation  of  gratitude 
to  perform,  and  a  doubtful  question  to  solve. 

The  measure  of  precaution  related  necessa- 
rily to  the  Count.  It  was  of  the  last  import- 
ance to  ascertain,  if  possible,  whether  his  plans 
committed  him  to  remaining  in  England — or, 
in  other  words,  to  remaining  within  my  reach. 
I  contrived  to  set  this  doubt  at  rest  by  very  sim- 
ple means.  His  address  in  St.  John's  Wood 
being  known  to  me,  I  inquired  in  the  neigh- 
borhood ;  and  having  found  out  the  agent  who 
had  the  disposal  of  the  furnished  house  in 
which  he  lived,  I  asked  if  Number  five  Forest 
Road  was  likely  to  be  let  within  a  reasonable 
time.  The  reply  was  in  the  negative.  I  was 
informed  that  the  foreign  gentleman  then  re- 
siding in  the  house  had  renewed  his  term  of  oc- 
cupation for  another  six  months,  and  would  re- 
main in  possession  until  the  end  of  June  in  the 
following  year.  We  were  then  at  the  beginning 
of  December  only.  I  left  the  agent  with  my 
mind  relieved  from  all  present  fear  of  the 
Count's  escaping  me. 

The  obligation  I  had  to  perform  took  me  once 
more  into  the  presence  of  Mrs.  Clements.  I  had 
promised  to  return,  and  to  confide  to  her  those 
particulars  relating  to  the  death  -and  burial  of 
Anne  Catherick  which  I  had  been  obliged  to 
withhold  at  our  first  interview.  Changed  as  cir- 
cumstances now  were,  there  was  no  hinderance 
to  my  trusting  the  good  woman  with  as  much 
of  the  story  of  the  conspiracy  as  it  was  neces- 
'  sary  to  tell.  I  had  every  reason  that  sympathy 
and  friendly  feeling  could  suggest  to  urge  on  me 
the  speedy  performance  of  my  promise,  and 
I  did  conscientiously  and  carefully  perform  it. 


232 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


There  is  no  need  to  burden  these  pages  with 
any  statement  of  what  passed  at  the  interview. 
It  will  be  more  to  the  purpose  to  say  that  the 
interview  itself  necessarily  brought  to  my  mind 
the  one  doubtful  question  still  remaining  to  be 
solved — the  question  of  Anne  Catherick's  par- 
entage on  the  father's  side. 

A  multitude  of  small  considerations  in  connec- 
tion with  this  subject — trifling  enough  in  them- 
selves, but  strikingly  important  when  massed  to- 
gether— had  latterly  led  my  mind  to  a  conclu- 
sion which  I  resolved  to  verify.  I  obtained 
Marian's  permission  to  write  to  Major  Don- 
thorne,  of  Varneck  Hall  (where  Mrs.  Catherick 
had  lived  in  service  for  some  yeai's  previous  to 
her  marriage),  to  ask  him  certain  questions.  I 
made  the  inquiries  in  Marian's  name,  and  de- 
scribed them  as  relating  to  matters  of  personal 
interest  in  her  family,  which  might  explain  and 
excuse  my  application.  When  I  wrote  the  let- 
ter I  had  no  certain  knowledge  that  Major 
Donthorne  was  still  alive ;  I  dispatched  it  on 
the  chance  that  he  might  be  living,  and  able  and 
willing  to  reply. 

After  the  lapse  of  two  days  proof  came,  in  the 
shape  of  a  letter,  that  the  Major  was  living,  and 
that  he  was  ready  to  help  us. 

The  idea  in  my  mind  when  I  wrote  to  him, 
and  the  nature  of  my  inquiries,  will  be  easily 
inferred  from  his  reply.  His  letter  answered 
my  questions  by  communicating  these  import- 
ant facts : 

In  the  first  place,  "  the  late  Sir  Percival 
Glyde,  of  Blackwater  Park,"  had  never  set  foot 
in  Varneck  Hall.  The  deceased  gentleman  was 
a  total  stranger  to  Major  Donthorne  and  to  all 
his  family. 

In  the  second  place,  "the  late  Mr.  Philip 
Fairlie,  of  Limmeridge  House,"  had  been,  in  his 
younger  days,  the  intimate  friend  and  constant 
guest  of  Major  Donthorne.  Having  refreshed 
his  memory  by  looking  back  to  old  letters  and 
other  papers,  the  Major  was  in  a  position  to  say 
positively  that  Mr.  Philip  Fairlie  was  staying  at 
Varneck  Hall  in  the  month  of  August,  eighteen 
hundred  and  twenty-six,  and  that  he  remained 
there,  for  the  shooting,  during  the  month  of 
September  and  part  of  October  following.  He 
then  left,  to  the  best  of  the  Major's  belief,  for 
Scotland,  and  did  not  return  to  Varneck  Hall 
till  after  a  lapse  of  time,  when  he  reappeared  in 
the  character  of  a  newly-married  man. 

Taken  by  itself  this  statement  was,  perhaps, 
of  little  positive  value  ;  but  taken  in  connection 
with  certain  facts,  every  one  of  which  either 
Marian  or  I  knew  to  be  true,  it  suggested  one 
plain  conclusion  that  was,  to  our  minds,  irre- 
sistible. 

Knowing  now  that  Mr.  Philip  Fairlie  had 
been  at  Varneck  Hall  in  the  autumn  of  eiglit- 
een  hundred  and  twenty-six,  and  that  Mrs. 
Catherick  had  been  living  there  in  service  at 
the  same  time,  we  knew  also — first,  that  Anne 
had  been  born  in  June,  eighteen  hundred  and 
twenty-seven ;  secondly,  that  she  had  always  pre- 
sented an  extraordinary  ])ersonal  resemblance 
to  Laura ;  and,  thirdly,  that  Laura  herself  was 
strikingly  like  her  father.  Mr.  Philip  Fairlie 
had  been  one  of  the  notoriously  handsome  men 
of  his  time.  In  disposition  entirely  unlike  his 
brother  Frederick,  he  was  the  spoiled  darling 
of  society,  especially  of  the  women — an  easy. 


light-hearted,  impulsive,  affectionateman  ;  gen- 
erous to  a  fault;  constitutionally  lax  in  his 
principles,  and  notoriously  thoughtless  of  moral 
obligations  where  women  were  concerned.  Such 
were  the  facts  we  knew ;  such  was  the  charac- 
ter of  the  man.  Surely  the  plain  inference  that 
follows  needs  no  pointing  out  ? 

Eead  by  the  new  light  which  had  now  broken 
upon  me,  even  Mrs.  Catherick's  letter,  in  despite 
of  herself,  rendered  its  mite  of  assistance  to- 
ward strengthening  the  conclusion  at  which  I 
had  arrived.  She  had  described  Mrs.  Fairlie 
(in  writing  to  nie)  as  "plain-looking,"  and  as 
having  "entrapped  the  handsomest  man  in  En- 
gland into  marrying  her."  Both  assertions  were 
gratuitously  made,  and  both  were  false.  Jealous 
dislike  (which,  in  such  a  woman  as  Mrs.  Cath- 
erick, would  express  itself  in  petty  malice  rather 
than  not  express  itself  at  all)  appeared  to  me  to 
be  the  only  assignable  cause  for  the  peculiar  in- 
solence of  her  reference  to  Mrs.  Fairlie,  under 
circumstances  which  did  not  necessitate  any  ref- 
erence at  all. 

The  mention  here  of  Mrs.  Fairlie's  name  nat- 
urally suggests  one  other  question.  Did  she 
ever  suspect  whose  child  the  little  girl  brought 
to  her  at  Limmeridge  might  be  ? 

Marian's  testimony  was  positive  on  this  point. 
Mrs.  Fairlie's  letter  to  her  husband,  which  had 
been  read  to  me  in  former  days — the  letter  de- 
scribing Anne's  resemblance  to  Laura,  and  ac- 
knowledging her  aft'ectionate  interest  in  the  little 
stranger — had  been  written,  beyond  all  question, 
in  perfect  innocence  of  heart.  It  even  seemed 
doubtful,  on  consideration,  whether  Mr.  Philiji 
Fairlie  himself  had  been  nearer  than  his  wife  to 
any  suspicion  of  the  truth.  The  disgracefully 
deceitful  circumstances  under  which  Mrs.  Cath- 
erick had  married,  the  purpose  of  concealment 
which  the  marriage  was  intended  to  answer, 
might  well  keep  her  silent  for  caution's  sake — 
perhaps  for  her  own  pride's  sake  also — even  as- 
suming that  she  had  the  means,  in  his  absence, 
of  communicating  with  the  father  of  her  unborn 
child. 

As  this  surmise  floated  through  my  mind 
there  rose  on  my  memory  the  remembrance  of 
the  Scripture  denunciation  which  we  have  all 
thought  of,  in  our  time,  with  wonder  and  with 
awe  :  "The  sins  of  the  fathers  shall  be  visited 
on  the  children."  But  for  the  fatal  resemblance 
between  the  two  daughters  of  one  father,  the 
conspiracy,  of  which  Anne  had  been  the  inno- 
cent instrument  and  Laura  the  innocent  victim, 
could  never  have  been  planned.  With  what 
unerring  and  terrible  directuess  the  long  chain 
of  circumstances  led  down  from  the  thoughtless 
wrong  committed  by  the  father  to  the  heartless 
injury  inflicted  on  the  child! 

These  thoughts  came  to  me,  and  others  with 
them,  which  drew  my  mind  away  to  the  little 
Cumberland  cliurcli-yard  where  Anne  Catherick 
now  lay  buried.  I  thought  of  the  i)y-gone  days 
when  I  had  met  her  by  Mrs.  Fairlie's  grave,  and 
met  her  for  the  last  time.  I  thought  of  her  poor 
heljdess  hands  beating  on  the  tomb-stone,  and 
her  weary,  yearniug  words,  murmured  to  the 
dead  remains  of  her  protectress  and  her  friend. 
"  Oh,  if  I  could  die,  and  be  hidden  and  at  rest 
with  you .'"  Little  more  than  a  year  had  passed 
since  she  breathed  that  wish  ;  and  how  inscru- 
tably, how  awfully,  it  had  been  fulfilled !     The 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


233 


words  she  had  spoken  to  Laura  by  the  shores 
of  the  lake,  the  very  words  had  now  come  true. 
"  Oh,  if  I  could  only  be  buried  with  your  mo- 
ther! If  I  could  only  wake  at  her  side  when 
the  angel's  trumpet  sounds,  and  the  graves  give 
up  their  dead  at  the  resurrection  !"  Through 
what  mortal  crime  and  horror,  through  what 
darkest  windings  of  the  way  down  to  Death, 
the  lost  creature  had  wandered  in  God's  lead- 
ing to  the  last  home  that,  living,  she  never 
hoped  to  reach !  There  (I  said  in  my  own 
heart) — there,  if  ever  I  have  the  power  to  will 
it,  all  that  is  mortal  of  her  shall  i-emain,  and 
share  the  grave-bed  with  the  loved  friend  of  her 


childhood,  with  the  dear  remembrance  of  her 
life.  That  rest  shall  be  sacred — that  compan- 
ionship always  undisturbed ! 

So  the  ghostly  figure  which  has  haunted  these 
pages  as  it  haunted  my  life,  goes  doMu  into  the 
impenetrable  Gloom.  Like  a  Shadow  she  first 
came  to  me,  in  the  loneliness  of  the  night.  Like 
a  Shadow  she  passes  awaj-^,  in  the  loneliness  of 
the  dead ! 


Forward,  now!  Forward  on  the  way  that 
winds  through  other  scenes,  and  leads  to  bright- 
er times. 


THE  END  OF  THE  SECOND  PART. 


234 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


PART    III. 


WALTER  HARTRIGHT'S  NARRATIVE 
CONTINUED. 

I. 

Four  montlis  passed.  April  came — the  month 
of  spring,  the  month  of  change. 

The  course  of  Time  had  flowed  through  the 
interval  since  the  winter,  peacefully  and  happi- 
ly in  our  new  home.  I  had  turned  my  long  leis- 
ure to  good  account ;  had  largely  increased  my 
sources  of  employment;  and  had  placed  our 
means  of  subsistence  on  surer  grounds.  Freed 
from  the  suspense  and  the  anxiety  which  had 
tried  her  so  sorely,  and  hung  over  her  so  long, 
Marian's  spirits  rallied,  and  her  natural  energy 
of  character  began  to  assert  itself  again  with 
something,  if  not  all,  of  the  freedom  and  the 
vigor  of  former  times. 

More  pliable  under  change  than  her  sister, 
Laura  showed  more  plainly  the  progress  made 
by  the  healing  influences  of  lier  new  life.  The 
worn  and  wasted  look  which  had  prematurely 
aged  her  face  was  fast  leaving  it,  and  the  ex- 
pression which  had  been  the  first  of  its  charms 
in  past  days  was  the  first  of  its  beauties  that 
now  returned.  My  closest  observation  of  her 
detected  but  one  serious  result  of  the  conspiracy 
which  had  once  threatened  her  reason  and  her 
life.  Her  memory  of  events,  from  the  period 
of  her  leaving  Blackwater  Park  to  the  period  of 
our  meeting  in  the  burial-ground  of  Limmeridge 
Church,  was  lost  beyond  all  hope  of  recovery. 
At  the  slightest  reference  to  that  time,  she 
changed  and  trembled  still ;  her  words  became 
confused ;  her  memoi^  wandered  and  lost  itself 
as  helplessly  as  ever.  Here,  and  here  only,  the 
traces  of  the  past  lay  deep — too  deep  to  be  ef- 
faced. 

In  all  else  she  was  now  so  far  on  the  way  to 
recovery  that,  on  her  best  and  brightest  days, 
she  sometimes  looked  and  spoke  like  the  Lau- 
ra of  old  times.  The  happy  change  wrought  its 
natural  result  in  us  both.  From  their  long 
slumber,  on  her  side  and  on  mine,  those  im- 
perishable memories  of  our  past  life  in  Cum- 
berland now  awoke,  which  were  one  and  all 
alike,  the  memories  of  our  love. 

Gradually  and  insensibly  our  daily  relations 
toward  each  other  became  constrained.  The 
fond  words  which  I  had  spoken  to  her  so  natu- 
rally in  the  days  of  her  sorrow  and  her  suffer- 
ing, faltered  strangely  on  my  lips.  In  the  time 
when  my  dread  of  losing  her  was  most  present 
to  my  mind,  I  had  always  kissed  her  when  she 
left  me  at  night  and  when  she  met  me  in  the 
morning.  Tlie  kiss  seemed  now  to  have  dropped 
between  us — to  be  lost  out  of  our  lives.  Our 
hands  began  to  tremble  again  when  they  met. 
We  hardly  ever  looked  long  at  one  another  out 
of  Marian's  ])resence.  The  talk  often  flagged  be- 
tween us  when  we  were  alone.  When  I  touched 
her  by  accident,  I  felt  my  heart  beating  fast,  as 


it  used  to  beat  at  Limmeridge  House — I  saw 
the  lovely  answering  flush  glowing  again  in  her 
cheeks,  as  if  we  were  back  among  the  Cumber- 
land Hills  in  our  past  characters  of  master  and 
pupil  once  more.  She  had  long  intervals  of  si- 
lence and  thoughtfulness,  and  denied  she  had 
been  thinking  when  Marian  asked  her  the  ques- 
tion. I  surprised  myself  one  day  neglecting  my 
work  to  dream  over  the  little  water-color  por- 
trait of  her  which  I  had  taken  in  the  summer- 
house  where  we  first  met — just  as  I  used  to 
neglect  Mr.  Fairlie's  drawings  to  dream  over 
the  same  likeness  when  it  was  newly  finished, 
in  the  by-gone  time.  Changed  as  all  the  cir- 
cumstances now  were,  our  position  toward  each 
other  in  the  golden  days  of  our  first  companion- 
ship seemed  to  be  revived  with  the  revival  of 
our  love.  It  was  as  if  Time  had  drifted  us  back, 
on  the  wreck  of  our  early  hopes,  to  the  old  fa- 
miliar shore ! 

To  any  other  woman  I  could  have  spoken  the 
decisive  words  which  I  still  hesitated  to  speak 
to  her.  The  utter  helplessness  of  her  position; 
her  friendless  dependence  on  all  the  forbearing 
gentleness  that  I  could  show  her;  my  fear  of 
touching  too  soon  some  secret  sensitiveness  in 
her,  which  my  instinct  as  a  man  might  not  have 
been  fine  enough  to  discover — these  considera- 
tions, and  others  like  them,  kept  me  self-dis- 
trustfully  silent.  And  yet  I  knew  that  the  re- 
straint on  both  sides  must  be  ended ;  that  the 
relations  in  which  we  stood  toward  one  another 
must  be  altered,  in  some  settled  manner,  for  the 
future ;  and  that  it  rested  with  me,  in  the  first 
instance,  to  recognize  the  necessity  for  a  change. 

The  more  I  thought  of  our  position,  the  hard- 
er the  attempt  to  alter  it  appeared  while  the 
domestic  conditions  on  which  we  three  had  been 
living  together  since  the  winter  remained  undis- 
turbed. I  can  not  account  for  the  capricious 
state  of  mind  in  which  this  feeling  originated — 
but  the  idea  nevertheless  possessed  me  that  some 
previous  change  of  place  and  circumstances,  some 
sudden  break  in  the  quiet  monotony  of  our  lives, 
so  managed  as  to  vary  the  home  aspect  under 
which  we  had  been  accustomed  to  see  each  oth- 
er, might  prepare  the  way  for  me  to  speak,  and 
might  make  it  easier  and  less  embarrassing  for 
Laura  and  Marian  to  hear. 

With  this  purpose  in  view,  I  said  one  morn- 
ing that  I  thought  we  had  all  earncil  a  little 
holiday  and  a  change  of  scene.  After  some 
consideration,  it  was  decided  that  we  should  go 
for  a  fortnight  to  the  sea-side.  On  the  next 
day  we  left  Fulham  for  a  quiet  town  on  the 
south  coast.  At  that  early  season  of  the  year 
we  were  the  only  visitors  in  the  place.  The 
clilTs,  the  beach,  and  the  walks  inland  were  all 
in  the  solitary  condition  which  was  most  wel- 
come to  us.  The  air  was  mild ;  the  jirospect* 
over  hill  and  wood  and  down  were  beautifully 
varied  by  the  shifting  April  light  and  shade; 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


235 


and  the  restless  sea  leaped  under  our  windows 
as  if  it  felt,  like  the  land,  the  glow  and  fresh- 
ness of  spring. 

I  owed  it  to  Marian  to  consult  her  before  I 
spoke  to  Laura,  and  to  be  guided  afterward  by 
her  advice. 

On  the  third  day  from  our  arrival  I  found  a 
fit  opportunity  of  s]jeaking  to  her  alone.  The 
moment  we  looked  at  one  another  her  quick  in- 
stinct detected  the  thought  in  my  mind  before  I 
could  give  it  expression.  With  her  customar}' 
energy  and  directness  she  spoke  at  once,  and 
spoke  first. 

"You  are  thinking  of  that  subject  which  was 
mentioned  between  us  on  the  evening  of  your ' 
return  from  Hampshire,"  she  said.  "I  have 
been  expecting  you  to  allude  to  it  for  some  time 
past.  There  must  be  a  change  in  our  little 
household,  Walter;  we  can  not  go  on  much 
longer  as  we  are  now.  I  see  it  as  plainly  as 
you  do — as  plainly  as  Laura  sees  it,  though  she 
says  nothing.  How  strangely  the  old  times  in 
Ciunberland  seem  to  have  come  back!  You 
and  I  are  together  again,  and  the  one  subject 
of  interest  between  us  is  Laura  once  more.  I 
could  almost  fancy  that  this  room  is  tlie  sum- 
mer-house at'Limmeridge,  and  that  those  waves 
beyond  us  are  beating  on  oiir  sea-shore." 

"I  was  guided  by  your  advice  in  those  past 
days,"  I  said;  "and  now,  JNIarian,  with  reliance 
ten-fold  greater,  I  will  be  guided  by  it  again." 

She  answered  by  pressing  my  hand.  I  saw 
that  the  generous,  impulsive  nature  of  the  wo- 
man was  deeply  touched  by  my  reference  to  the 
past.  We  sat  together  near  the  window  ;  and, 
while  I  spoke  and  she  listened,  we  looked  at  the 
glory  of  the  sunlight  shining  on  the  majesty  of 
the  sea. 

"Whatever  comes  of  this  confidence  between 
us,"  I  said,  "whether  it  ends  happily  or  sorrow- 
fully for  me,  Laura's  interests  will  still  be  the 
interests  of  my  life.  When  we  leave  this  place, 
on  whatever  terms  we  leave  it,  my  determina- 
tion to  wrest  from  Count  Fosco  the  confession 
which  I  f;iiled  to  obtain  from  his  accomplice, 
goes  back  witli  me  to  London  as  certainly  as  I 
go  back  myself.  Neither  yon  nor  I  can  tell  how 
that  man  may  turn  on  me  if  I  bring  him  to  bay; 
we  only  know,  by  his  own  words  and  actions, 
that  he  is  capable  of  striking  at  me,  through 
Laura,  without  a  moment's  liesitation  or  a  mo- 
ment's remorse.  In  our  pi-esent  position,  I  have 
no  claim  on  her  which  society  sanctions,  which 
the  law  allows,  to  strengthen  me  in  resisting 
him,  and  in  protecting  her.  This  places  me  at ' 
a  serious  disadvantage.  If  I  am  to  fight  our 
cause  with  the  Count,  strong  in  the  conscious- 
ness of  Laura's  safety,  I  must  fight  it  for  my 
Wife.     Do  you  agree  to  that,  Marian,  so  far?" 

"To  every  word  of  it,"  she  answered. 

"  I  will  not  plead  out  of  my  own  heart,"  I 
went  on ;  "I  will  not  appeal  to  the  love  which 
has  survived  all  clianges  and  all  shocks — I  will 
rest  my  only  vindication  of  myself  for  thinking 
of  her  and  speaking  of  her  as  my  wife,  on  what 
I  have  just  said.  If  the  chance  of  forcing  a 
confession  from  the  Count  is,  as  I  believe  it  to 
be,  the  last  chance  left  of  publicly  establisliing 
the  fact  of  Laura's  existence,  the  least  selfish 
reason  that  I  can  advance  for  our  marriage  is 
recognized  by  us  both.  But  I  may  be  wrong 
in  my  conviction ;  other  means  of  achieving  our 


purpose  may  be  in  our  power,  which  are  less 
uncertain  and  less  dangerous.  I  have  searched 
anxiously,  in  my  own  mind,  for  those  means — 
and  I  have  not  found  them.     Have  you?" 

"  No.  I  have  thought  about  it  too,  and 
thought  in  vain." 

"In  all  likelihood,"  I  continued,  "the  same 
questions  have  occurred  to  you,  in  considering 
tills  difficult  subject,  which  have  occurred  to  me. 
Ought  we  to  return  with  her  to  Limmeridge, 
now  that  she  is  like  herself  again,  and  trust  to 
the  recognition  of  her  by  the  people  of  the  vil- 
lage or  by  the  children  at  the  school?  Ought 
we  to  appeal  to  the  practical  test  of  her  hand- 
writing? Suppose  we  did  so.  Suppose  the  rec- 
ognition of  her  obtained,  and  the  identity  of  the 
handwriting  established.  Would  success  in  both 
those  cases  do  more  than  sujiply  an  excellent 
foundation  for  a  trial  in  a  court  of  law  ?  Would 
the  recognition  and  tlie  handwriting  prove  her 
identity  to  Mr.  Fairlie,  and  take  her  back  to 
Limmeridge  House,  against  the  evidence  of  her 
aunt,  against  the  evidence  of  the  medical  cer- 
tificate, against  the  fact  of  the  funeral  and  the 
fact  of  the  inscription  on  the  tomb?  No  !  We 
could  only  hope  to  succeed  in  throwing  a  serious 
doubt  on  the  assertion  of  her  death — a  doubt 
which  nothing  short  of  a  legal  inquiry  can  settle. 
I  will  assume  that  we  possess  (what  we  have 
certainly  not  got)  money  enough  to  carry  this 
inquiry  on  through  all  its  stages.  I  will  assume 
that  Mr.  Fairlie's  prejudices  might  be  reasoned 
away  ;  that  the  false  testimony  of  the  Count  and 
his  wife,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  false  testimony, 
might  be  confuted ;  that  the  recognition  could 
not  possibly  be  ascribed  to  a  mistake  between 
Laura  and  Anne  Catherick,  or  the  handwriting 
be  declared  by  our  enemies  to  be  a  clever  fraud 
— all  these  are  assumptions  which,  more  or  less, 
set  plain  probabilities  at  defiance ;  but  let  them 
pass — and  let  us  ask  ourselves  what  would  be 
the  first  consequence  of  the  first  questions  put 
to  Laura  herself  on  the  subject  of  the  conspir- 
acy. We  know  only  too  well  what  the  conse- 
quence would  be — for  we  know  that  she  has 
never  recovered  her  memorj'  of  what  hapjicned 
to  her  in  London.  Examine  her  privately,  or 
examine  her  publicly,  she  is  utterly  incapable 
of  assisting  the  assertion  of  her  own  case.  If 
you  don't  see  this,  Marian,  as  plainly  as  I  see 
it,  we  will  go  to  Limmeridge  and  try  the  exper- 
iment to-morrow." 

"  I  do  see  it,  Walter.  Even  if  we  had  the 
means  of  paying  all  the  law  expenses,  even  if  we 
succeeded  in  the  end,  the  delays  would  be  un- 
endurable; the  perpetual  suspense,  after  what  we 
have  sufiered  already,  would  be  heart-breaking. 
You  are  right  about  the  hopelessness  of  going  to 
Limmeridge.  I  wish  I  could  feel  sure  that  you 
are  right  also  in  determining  to  try  that  last 
chance  with  the  Count.     Is  it  a  chance  at  all?" 

"Beyond  a  doubt.  Yes.  It  is  the  chance  of 
recovering  the  lost  date  of  Laura's  journey  to 
London.  Without  returning  to  the  reasons  I 
gave  you  some  time  since,  I  am  still  as  firmly 
persuaded  as  ever  that  there  is  a  discrepancy 
between  the  date  of  that  journey  and  the  date 
on  the  certificate  of  death.  There  lies  the  weak 
point  of  the  whole  conspiracy — it  crumbles  to 
pieces  if  we  attack  it  in  that  way ;  and  the  means 
of  attacking  it  are  in  jiossession  of  the  Count. 
If  I  succeed  in  wresting  them  from  him,  the  ob- 


236 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


ject  of  your  life  and  mine  is  fulfilled.  If  I  fail, 
the  wrong  that  Laura  has  suft'ered  will,  in  this 
world,  never  be  redressed." 

"  Do  you  fear  failure  yourself,  Walter?" 
"  I  dare  not  anticipate  success ;  and  for  that 
very  reason,  Marian,  I  speak  openly  and  plainly, 
as  I  have  spoken  now.  In  my  heart  and  my 
conscience  I  can  say  it — Laura's  hopes  for  the 
future  are  at  their  lowest  ebb.  I  know  that  her 
fortune  is  gone;  I  know  that  the  last  chance  of 
restoring  her  to  her  place  in  the  world  lies  at 
the  mercy  of  her  worst  enemy,  of  a  man  who 
is  now  absolutely  unassailable,  and  who  may 
remain  unassailable  to  the  end.  With  every 
worldly  advantage  gone  from  her ;  with  all  pros- 
pect of  recovering  her  rank  and  station  more 
than  doubtful ;  with  no  clearer  future  before 
her  than  the  future  whicli  her  husband  can  pro- 
vide— the  poor  drawing-master  may  harmlessly 
open  his  heart  at  last.  In  the  days  of  her  pros- 
perity, Marian,  I  was  only  the  teacher  who 
guided  her  hand — I  ask  for  it,  in  her  adversity, 
as  the  hand  of  my  wife !" 

Marian's  eyes  met  mine  affectionately — I 
could  say  no  more.  My  heart  was  full,  my  lips 
were  trembling.  In  spite  of  myself,  I  was  in 
danger  of  appealing  to  her  pity.  I  got  up  to 
leave  the  room.  She  rose  at  the  same  moment, 
laid  her  hand  gently  on  my  shoulder,  and  stojiped 
me. 

"Walter!"  she  said,  "I  once  parted  you 
both,  for  your  good  and  for  hers.  Wait  here, 
my  Brother! — wait,  my  dearest,  best  friend,  till 
Laura  comes,  and  tells  you  what  I  have  done 
now!" 

For  the  first  time  since  the  farewell  morning 
at  Lirameridge  she  touched  my  forehead  with 
her  lips.  A  tear  dropped  on  my  face  as  she 
kissed  me.  She  turned  quickly,  jjointed  to  the 
chair  from  which  I  had  risen,  and  left  the  room. 

I  sat  down  alone  at  the  window,  to  wait 
through  the  crisis  of  my  life.  My  mind,  in 
that  breathless  interval,  felt  like  a  total  blank. 
I  was  conscious  of  nothing  but  a  painful  intens- 
ity of  all  familiar  perceptions.  The  sun  grew 
blinding  briglit ;  the  white  sea-birds  chasing  each 
other  far  beyond  me,  seemed  to  be  flitting  before 
my  face ;  the  mellow  murmur  of  the  waves  on 
the  beach  was  like  thunder  in  my  ears. 

The  door  opened,  and  Laura  came  in  alone. 
So  she  had  entered  the  breakfast-room  at  Lim- 
meridge  House  on  the  morning  when  we  parted. 
Slowly  and  falteringly,  in  sorrow  and  in  hesi- 
tation, she  had  once  approached  me.  Now  she 
came  with  the  haste  of  happiness  in  her  feet, 
with  the  light  of  happiness  radiant  in  her  face. 
Of  their  own  accord,  those  dear  arms  clasped 
themselves  round  me ;  of  their  own  accord,  the 
sweet  lips  came  to  meet  mine.  "  My  darling !" 
she  whispered,  "we  may  own  we  love  each 
other  now!"  Her  head  nestled  with  a  tender 
contentedncss  on  my  bosom.  "Oh,"  she  said, 
innocently,  "I  am  so  happy  at  last!" 

Ten  days  later  we  were  happier  still.  We 
were  married. 

II. 

The  course  of  this  narrative,  steadily  flowing 
on,  bears  me  away  from  the  morning-time  of 
our  married  life,  and  carries  me  forward  to  the 
End. 

In  a  fortnight  more  we  three  were  back  in 


London,  and  the  shadow  was  stealing  over  us 
of  the  struggle  to  come. 

Marian  and  I  were  careful  to  keep  Laura  in 
ignorance  of  the  cause  that  had  hurried  us  back 
— the  necessity  of  making  sure  of  the  Count. 
It  was  now  the  beginning  of  May,  and  his  term 
of  occupation  at  the  house  in  Forest  Road  ex- 
pired in  June.  If  he  renewed  it  (and  I  had 
reasons,  shortly  to  be  mentioned,  for  anticipat- 
ing that  he  would),  I  might  be  certain  of  his 
not  escaping  me.  But  if  by  any  chance  he  dis- 
appointed my  expectations  and  left  the  country 
— then  I  had  no  time  to  lose  in  arming  myself 
to  meet  him  as  I  best  might. 

In  the  first  fullness  of  my  new  happiness 
there  had  been  moments  when  my  resolution 
faltered — moments  when  I  was  tempted  to  be 
safely  content,  now  that  the  dearest  aspiration 
of  my  life  was  fulfilled  in  the  possession  of  Lau- 
ra's love.  For  the  first  time,  I  thought  faint- 
heartedly of  the  greatness  of  the  risk ;  of  the 
adverse  chances  arrayed  against  me  ;  of  the  fair 
promise  of  our  new  lives,  and  of  the  peril  in 
which  I  might  place  the  happiness  which  we  had 
so  hardly  earned.  Yes !  let  me  own  it  honestly. 
For  a  brief  time  I  wandered,  in  the  sweet  guid- 
ing of  love,  far  from  the  purpose  to  which  I  had 
been  true  under  sterner  discipline  and  in  darker 
days.  Innocently,  Laura  had  tempted  me  aside 
from  the  hard  path — innocently,  she  was  des- 
tined to  lead  me  back  again.  At  times,  dreams 
of  the  terrible  past  still  disconnectedly  recalled 
to  her,  in  the  mystery  of  sleep,  the  events  of 
which  her  waking  memory  had  lost  all  trace. 
One  night  (barely  two  weeks  after  our  marriage), 
when  I  was  watching  her  at  rest,  I  saw  the  tears 
come  slowly  through  her  closed  eyelids,  I  heard 
tlie  faint  murmuring  words  escape  her  which 
told  me  that  her  spirit  was  back  again  on  the 
fatal  journey  from  Blackwater  Park.  That  un- 
conscious appeal,  so  touching  and  so  awful  in 
the  sacredness  of  her  sleep,  ran  through  me  like 
fire.  The  next  day  was  the  day  we  came  back 
to  London — the  day  when  my  resolution  return- 
ed to  me  with  ten-fold  strength. 

The  first  necessity  was  to  know  something  of 
the  man.  Thus  far,  the  true  story  of  his  life 
was  an  impenetrable  mystery  to  me. 

I  began  with  such  scanty  sources  of  informa- 
tion as  were  at  my  own  disposal.  The  import- 
ant narrative  written  by  Mr.  Frederick  Fairlie 
(which  Marian  had  obtained  by  following  the 
directions  I  had  given  to  her  in  the  winter) 
proved  to  be  of  no  service  to  the  special  object 
with  which  I  now  looked  at  it.  While  reading 
it,  I  reconsidered  the  disclosure  revealed  to  me 
by  Mrs.  Clements,  of  the  series  of  deceptions 
which  had  brought  Anne  Catherick  to  London, 
and  which  had  there  devoted  her  to  the  inter- 
ests of  the  conspiracy.  Here,  again,  the  Count 
had  not  openly  committed  himself;  here,  again, 
he  was,  to  all  practical  purpose,  out  of  my  reach. 

I  next  returned  to  Marian's  journal  at  Black- 
water  Park.  At  my  request  she  read  to  me 
again  a  passage  whicli  referred  to  her  past  curi- 
osity about  the  Count,  and  to  the  few  particulars 
which  slie  had  discovered  relating  to  him. 

The  jiassage  to  which  I  allude  occurs  in  that 
part  of  her  journal  which  delineates  his  charac- 
ter and  his  personal  apjjearance.  She  describes 
him  as  "not  liaving  crossed  the  frontiers  of  his 
native  country  for  years  jiast" — as  "  anxious  to 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


23; 


know  if  any  Italian  pjentlemen  were  settled  in 
the  nearest  town  to  Blackwater  Park" — as  "  re- 
ceiving letters  with  all  sorts  of  odd  stamps  on 
them,  and  one  with  a  large,  official-looking  seal 
on  it."  She  is  inclined  to  consider  that  his  long 
absence  from  liis  native  country  may  be  account- 
ed for  by  assuming  that  he  is  a  political  exile. 
]Jut  she  is,  on  the  other  hand,  unable  to  i-econ- 
cile  this  idea  with  his  reception  of  the  letter 
from  abroad,  bearing  "the  large,  official-look- 
ing seal" — letters  from  the  Continent  addressed 
to  political  exiles  being  usually  the  last  to  court 
attention  from  foreign  post-offices  in  that  way. 

The  considerations  thus  presented  to  me  in 
the  diary,  joined  to  certain  surmises  of  my  own 
that  grew  out  of  them,  suggested  a  conclusion 
which  I  wondered  I  had  not  arrived  at  before. 
I  now  said  to  myself — what  Laura  had  once  said 
to  Marian  at  Blackwater  Park ;  what  Madame 
Fosco  had  overheard  by  listening  at  the  door — 
the  Count  is  a  Spy ! 

Laura  had  applied  the  word  to  him  at  hazard, 
in  natural  anger  at  his  proceedings  toward  her- 
self. /  applied  it  to  him,  with  the  deliberate 
conviction  that  his  vocation  in  life  was  the  voca- 
tion of  a  Sjiy.  On  this  assumjition,  the  reason 
for  his  extraordinary  stay  in  England,  so  long 
after  the  objects  of  the  conspiracy  had  been 
gained,  became,  to  my  mind,  quite  intelligible. 

The  year  of  which  I  am  now  writing  was  the 
year  of  the  famous  Crystal  Palace  Exhibition 
in  Hyde  Park.  Foreigners,  in  unusually  large 
numbers,  had  arrived  already  and  were  still  ar- 
riving in  England.  Men  were  among  us,  by 
thousands,  whom  the  ceaseless  distrustfulness 
of  their  governments  had  followed  privately,  by 
means  of  appointed  agents,  to  our  shores.  My 
surmises  did  not  for  a  moment  class  a  man  of 
the  Count's  abilities  and  social  position  with  the 
ordinary  rank  and  file  of  foreign  spies.  I  sus- 
pected him  of  holding  a  position  of  authority, 
of  being  intrusted,  by  the  Government  which  he 
secretly  served,  with  the  organization  and  man- 
agement of  agents  specially  employed  in  this 
country,  both  men  and  women  ;  and  I  believed 
Mrs.  Rubelle,  who  had  been  so  opportunely 
found  to  act  as  nurse  at  Blackwater  Park,  to 
be,  in  all  jirobability,  one  of  the  number. 

Assuming  that  this  idea  of  mine  had  a  foun- 
dation in  truth,  the  position  of  the  Count  might 
prove  to  be  more  assailable  than  I  had  hitherto 
ventured  to  hope.  To  whom  could  I  apply  to 
know  something  more  of  the  man's  history,  and 
of  the  man  himself,  than  I  knew  now? 

In  this  emergency,  it  naturally  occurred  to 
my  mind  that  a  countryman  of  his  own,  on 
whom  I  could  rely,  might  be  the  fittest  person 
to  help  me.  The  first  man  whom  I  thought  of, 
under  these  circumstances,  was  also  the  only 
Italian  with  whom  I  was  intimately  acquainted 
— my  quaint  little  friend.  Professor  Pesca. 

The  Professor  has  been  so  long  absent  from 
these  pages,  that  he  has  run  some  risk  of  being 
forgotten  altogether.  It  is  the  necessary  law  of 
such  a  story  as  mine,  that  the  persons  concerned 
in  it  only  appear  when  the  course  of  events  takes 
them  up — they  come  and  go,  not  by  favor  of  my 
personal  partiality,  but  by  right  of  their  direct 
connection  with  the  circumstances  to  be  detailed. 
For  this  reason,  not  Pesca  only,  but  my  mother 
and  sister  as  well,  have  been  left  far  in  "the  back- 


ground of  the  naiTative.  My  visits  to  the  Hamp- 
stead  cottage ;  my  mother's  lamentable  belief  in 
the  denial  of  Laura's  identity  which  the  con- 
spiracy had  accomplished;  my  vain  efforts  to 
overcome  the  prejudice,  on  her  jiart  and  on  my 
sister's,  to  which,  in  their  jealous  affection  for 
me,  they  both  continued  to  adhere  ;  the  painful 
necessity  which  that  prejudice  imposed  on  me 
of  concealing  my  marriage  from  them  till  they 
had  learned  to  do  justice  to  my  wife — all  these 
little  domestic  occurrences  have  been  left  unre- 
corded, because  they  were  not  essential  to  the 
main  interest  of  the  story.  It  is  nothing  that 
they  added  to  my  anxieties  and  embittered  my 
disappointments — the  steady  march  of  events 
has  inexorably  passed  them  by. 

For  the  same  reason,  I  have  said  nothing 
here  of  the  consolation  that  I  found  in  Pesca's 
brotherly  affection  for  me  when  I  saw  him  again 
after  the  sudden  cessation  of  my  residence  at 
Limmeridge  House.  I  have  not  recorded  the 
fidelity  with  which  my  warm-hearted  little  friend 
followed  me  to  the  place  of  embarkation  when 
I  sailed  for  Central  America,  or  the  noisy  trans- 
port of  joy  with  which  he  received  me  when  we 
next  met  in  London.  If  I  had  felt  justified  in 
accepting  the  offers  of  service  which  he  made  to 
me  on  my  return,  he  would  have  appeared  again 
long  ere  this.  But,  though  I  knew  that  his 
honor  and  his  courage  were  to  be  implicitly  re- 
lied on,  I  was  not  so  sure  that  his  discretion 
Avas  to  be  trusted;  and,  for  that  reason  onlj',  I 
followed  the  course  of  all  my  inquiries  alone. 
It  will  now  be  sufficiently  understood  that  Pesca 
was  not  separated  from  all  connection  with  me 
and  my  interests,  although  he  has  hitherto  been 
separated  from  all  connection  with  the  progress 
of  this  narrative.  He  was  as  true  and  as  ready 
a  friend  of  mine  still  as  ever  he  had  been  in  his 
life. 

Before  I  summoned  Pesca  to  my  assistance, 
it  was  necessary  to  see  for  myself  what  sort  of 
man  I  had  to  deal  with.  Up  to  this  time  I  had 
never  once  set  eyes  on  Count  Fosco. 

Three  days  after  my  return  with  Laura  and 
Marian  to  London,  I  set  forth  alone  for  Forest 
Koad,  St.  John's  Wood,  between  ten  and  eleven 
o'clock  in  the  morning.  It  was  a  fine  day — 1 
had  some  hours  to  spare — and  I  thought  it  like- 
ly, if  I  waited  a  little  for  him,  that  the  Count 
might  be  tempted  out.  I  had  no  great  reason 
to  fear  the  chance  of  his  recognizing  me  in  the 
daytime,  for  the  only  occasion  when  I  had  been 
seen  by  him  Avas  the  occasion  on  which  he  had 
followed  me  home  at  night. 

No  one  appeared  at  the  windows  in  the  front 
of  the  house.  I  Avalked  down  a  turning  which 
ran  past  the  side  of  it,  and  looked  over  the  low 
garden  wall.  One  of  the  back  windows  on 
the  lower  floor  was  thrown  up,  and  a  net  was 
stretched  across  the  opening.  I  saw  nobody ; 
but  I  heard  in  the  room,  first,  a  shrill  whistling 
and  singing  of  birds — then  the  deep  ringing 
voice  which  IMarian's  description  had  made  fa- 
miliar to  me.  "  Come  out  on  mj'  little  finger, 
my  pret-pret-pretties  !"  cried  the  voice.  "  Come 
out,  and  hop  up  stairs !  One,  two,  three — and 
up !  Three,  two,  one — and  down !  One,  two, 
three — twit-twit-twit-tweet!"  The  Count  was 
exercising  his  canaries,  as  he  used  to  exercise 
them  in  ^larian's  time  at  Blackwater  Park. 


238 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


-I     i      .|i!U>l> 


-/-^Z- 


"my  poor  little  man!"  he  said,  etc. 


I  waited  a  little  while,  and  the  singing  and 
the  whistling  ceased.  "Come,  kiss  me,  my 
pretties!"  said  the  deep  voice.  There  was  a 
responsive  twittering  and  chirping — a  low,  oily 
laugh — a  silence  of  a  minute  or  so — and  then  I 
heard  the  opening  of  the  house  door.  I  turned 
and  retraced  my  steps.  The  magnificent  mel- 
ody of  the  Prayer  in  Rossini's  "Moses,"  sung 
in  a  sonorous  bass  voice,  rose  grandly  through 
the  suburban  silence  of  the  place.  The  front 
gaTden  gate  opened  and  closed.  The  Count 
had  come  out. 

He  crossed  the  road,  and  walked  toward  the 
western  boundary  of  the  Regent's  Park.  I  kept 
(jn  my  own  side  of  the  way,  a  little  behind  him, 
and  walked  in  that  direction  also. 

Marian  had  i)repared  me  for  his  high  stature, 
his  monstrous  corpulence,  and  his  ostentatious 
mourning  garments — but  not  for  the  horrible 
freshness  and  cheerfulness  and  vitality  of  the 
man.  He  carried  his  sixty  years  as  if  they  had 
liecn  fewer  than  forty.  lie  sauntered  along 
wearing  his  hat  a  little  on  one  side,  with  a 
light  jaunty  stej) ;  swinging  his  big  stick;  hum- 
ming to  himself;  looking  up  from  time  to  time 
at  the  houses  and  gardens  on  cither  side  of  him 
with  superb,  smiling  patronngp.     If  a  stranger 


had  been  told  that  the  whole  neighborhood  be- 
longed to  him,  that  stranger  Mould  not  have 
been  surprised  to  hear  it.  He  never  looked 
back :  he  paid  no  apparent  attention  to  me,  no 
apparent  attention  to  any  one  who  passed  him 
on  his  own  side  of  the  road — except,  now  and 
then,  when  he  smiled  and  smirked,  with  an 
easy,  paternal  good-humor,  at  the  nursery-maids 
and  the  children  whom  he  met.  In  this  way 
he  led  me  on  till  we  reached  a  colony  of  shops 
outside  the  western  terraces  of  the  Park. 

Here  he  stopped  at  a  pastry-cook's,  went  in 
(probably  to  give  an  order),  and  came  out  again 
immediately  with  a  tart  in  his  hand.  An  Ital- 
ian was  grinding  an  organ  before  the  shop,  and 
a  miserable  little  shriveled  monkey  was  sitting  on 
tlic  instrument.  The  Count  stopped,  bit  a  piece 
for  himself  out  of  the  tart,  and  gravely  hand- 
ed the  rest  to  the  monkey.  "My  poor  little 
man  !"  he  said,  with  grotesque  tenderness,  "you 
look  hungry.  In  the  sacred  name  of  human- 
ity, I  otter  you  some  hinch  !"  Tlie  organ-grind- 
er pitcously  ])ut  in  his  claim  to  a  jienny  from 
the  bencvolciit  stranger.  The  Count  shrugged 
his  shoulders  contemptuously,  and  passed  on. 

We  reached  the  streets  and  the  better  class 
of  sho]is  between  the  New  1h>t\d   and  Oxford 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


230 


m 

,'fK. 


Street.  The  Count  stopped  again,  and  entered 
a  small  optician's  shop,  with  an  inscription  in 
tlie  window  announcing  that  repairs  were  neat- 
ly executed  inside.  He  came  out  again,  with 
an  opera-glass  in  his  hand  ;  walked  a  few  paces 
on,  and  stopped  to  look  at  a  hill  of  the  Opera 
placed  outside  a  music-seller's  shop.  He  read 
the  bill  attentively,  considered  a  moment,  and 
then  hailed  an  empty  cab  as  it  passed  him. 
"Opera-box  office,"  he  said  to  the  man,  and 
was  driven  away. 

I  crossed  the  road,  and  looked  at  the  bill  in 
my  turn.  The  performance  announced  was 
"Lucrezia  Borgia,"  and  it  was  to  take  place 
that  evening.  The  opera-glass  in  the  Count's 
liand,  his  careful  reading  of  the  bill,  and  his 
direction  to  the  cabman,  all  suggested  that  he 
proposed  making  one  of  the  audience.  I  had 
the  means  of  getting  an  admission  for  myself 
and  a  friend  to  the  pit,  by  applying  to  one  of 
the  scene-painters  attached  to  the  theatre,  with 
whom  I  had  been  well  acquainted  in  past  times. 
There  was  a  chance,  at  least,  that  the  Count 
might  be  easily  visible  among  the  audience  to 
me,  and  to  any  one  witli  mc ;  and,  in  this  case, 
I  had  the  means  of  ascertaining  whether  Pesca 
knew  his  countryman  or  not  that  very  night. 

This  consideration  at  once  decided  the  dis- 
l)Osal  of  my  evening.  I  procured  the  tickets, 
leaving  a  note  at  the  Professor's  lodgings  on  the 
way.  At  a  quarter  to  eight  I  called  to  take  him 
with  me  to  the  theatre.  "]\Iy  little  friend  was  in 
a  state  of  tlie  highest  excitement,  with  a  festive 


flower  in  his  button-hole,  and  the  largest  opera- 
glass  I  ever  saw  hugged  up  under  his  arm. 

"Are  you  ready?"  I  asked. 

"  Right-all-right,"  said  Pesca. 

We  started  for  the  theatre. 

III. 

The  last  notes  of  the  introduction  to  the  Op- 
era were  being  played,  and  the  seats  in  the  pit 
were  all  filled,  when  Pesca  and  I  reached  the 
theatre. 

There  was  plenty  of  room,  however,  in  the 
passage  that  ran  round  the  ])it,  which  was  pre- 
cisely the  position  best  calculated  to  answer  the 
purpose  for  Mhich  I  was  attending  the  perform- 
ance. I  went  first  to  the  barrier  separating  us 
from  the  stalls,  and  looked  for  the  Count  in  that 
part  of  the  theatre.  He  was  not  there.  Re- 
turning along  the  passage,  on  the  left-hand  side 
from  the  stage,  and  looking  about  me  attentive- 
1}',  I  discovered  him  in  the  pit.  He  occupied 
an  excellent  place,  some  twelve  or  fourteen  seats 
from  the  end  of  a  bench,  within  three  rows  of 
the  stalls.  I  placed  myself  exactly  on  a  line 
with  him,  Pesca  standing  by  my  side.  The 
Professor  was  not  yet  aware  of  the  purpose  for 
which  I  had  brought  him  to  the  theatre,  and  he 
was  rather  surprised  that  we  did  not  move  near- 
er to  the  stage. 

The  curtain  rose,  and  the  Opera  began. 

Throughout  the  whole  of  the  first  act  we  re- 
mained in  our  position,  the  Count,  absorbed  by 
the  orchestra  and  the  stage,  never  casting  so 
much  as  a  chance  glance  at  us.  Not  a  note 
of  Donizetti's  delicious  music  was  lost  on  him. 
There  he  sat,  high  above  his  neighbors,  smiling, 
and  nodding  his  great  head  enjoyingly,  from 
time  to  time.  When  the  people  near  him  ajj- 
plauded  the  close  of  an  air  (as  an  English  au- 
dience in  such  circumstances  always  uill  ap- 
plaud), without  the  least  consideration  for  the 
orchestral  movement  which  immediately  follow- 
ed it,  he  looked  round  at  them  with  an  expres- 
sion of  compassionate  remonstrance,  and  held 
up  one  hand  with  a  gesture  of  polite  entreaty. 
At  the  more  refined  passages  of  the  singing,  at 
the  more  delicate  phrases  of  the  music,  which 
passed  rmapplauded  by  others,  his  fat  hands 
adorned  with  perfectly-fitting  black  kid  gloves, 
softly  patted  each  other,  in  token  of  the  culti- 
vated appreciation  of  a  musical  man.  At  such 
times  his  only  murmur  of  a])proval,  "Bravo! 
Bra-a-a-a!"  hummed  through  the  silence  like 
the  purring  of  a  great  cat.  His  immediate 
neighbors  on  either  side — hearty,  ruddy-faced 
people  from  the  country,  basking  amazedly  in 
the  sunshine  of  fashionable  London — seeing  and 
hearing  him,  began  to  follow  his  lead.  Jlany 
a  burst  of  applause  from  the  pit,  that  night, 
started  from  the  soft,  comfortable  jiatting  of  the 
black-gloved  hands.  The  man's  voracious  van- 
ity devoured  this  implied  tribute  to  his  local  and 
critical  supremacy  with  an  appearance  of  the 
highest  relish.  Smiles  rippled  continuously 
over  his  fat  face.  He  looked  about  him  at  the 
pauses  in  the  music,  serenely  satisfied  with  him- 
self and  his  fellow-creatures.  "Yes  I  yes !  these 
barbarous  English  people  are  learning  something 
from  ME.  Here,  there,  and  every  where,  I — 
Fosco — am  an  Influence  that  is  felt,  a  IMan  who 
sits  supreme  I"  If  ever  face  spoke,  his  face 
spoke  then  ;  and  that  was  its  language. 


240 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


The  curtain  fell  on  the  first  act,  and  the  au- 
dience rose  to  look  about  them.  This  was  the 
time  I  had  waited  for — the  time  to  try  if  Pesca 
knew  him. 

He  rose  with  the  rest,  and  surveyed  the  occu- 
pants of  the  boxes  grandly  with  his  opera-glass. 
At  first  his  back  was  toward  us ;  but  he  turned 
round  in  time  to  our  side  of  the  theatre,  and 
looked  at  the  boxes  above  us,  using  his  glass  for 
a  few  minutes — then  removing  it,  but  still  con- 
tinuing to  look  up.  This  was  the  moment  I 
chose,  when  his  full  face  was  in  view,  for  di- 
recting Pesca's  attention  to  him. 

"Do  you  know  that  man?"  I  asked. 

"Which  man,  my  friend?" 

"The  tall,  fat  man  standing  there,  with  his 
face  toward  us." 

Pesca  raised  himself  on  tip-toe,  and  looked  at 
the  Count. 

"No,"  said  the  Professor.  "The  big  fat 
man  is  a  stranger  to  me.  Is  he  famous  ?  Why 
do  you  point  him  out?" 

"  Because  I  have  particular  reasons  for  wish- 
iiig  to  know  something  of  him.  He  is  a  coun- 
tryman of  yours ;  his  name  is  Count  Fosco. 
Do  you  know  that  name  ?" 

"Not  I,  Walter.  Neither  the  name  nor  the 
man  is  known  to  me." 

"  Ai'e  you  quite  sure  you  don't  recognize  him  ? 
Look  again  ;  look  cai'cfully.  I  will  tell  you  why 
I  am  so  anxious  about  it,  when  we  leave  the 
theatre.  Stop !  let  me  help  you  up  here,  where 
you  can  see  him  better." 

I  helped  the  little  man  to  perch  himself  on 
the  edge  of  the  raised  dais  upon  which  the  pit 
seats  were  all  placed.  Here  his  small  stature 
was  no  hinderance  to  him ;  here  he  could  see 
over  the  heads  of  the  ladies  who  were  seated 
near  the  outermost  part  of  the  bench.  A  slim, 
light-haired  man,  standing  by  us,  whom  I  had 
not  noticed  before — a  man  with  a  scar  on  his 
left  cheek  —  looked  attentively  at  Pesca  as  I 
helped  him  up,  and  then  looked  still  more  at- 
tentively, following  the  direction  of  Pesca's  eyes, 
at  the  Count.  Our  conversation  might  have 
reached  his  ears,  and  might,  as  it  struck  me, 
have  roused  his  curiosity. 

Meanwhile,  Pesca  fixed  his  eyes  earnestly  on 
the  broad,  full,  smiling  face,  turned  a  little  up- 
ward, exactly  opposite  to  him. 

"No,"  he  said;  "I  have  never  set  my  two 
eyes  on  that  big  fat  man  before  in  all  my  life." 

As  he  spoke,  the  Count  looked  downward  to- 
ward the  boxes  behind  us  on  the  pit  tier. 

The  eyes  of  the  two  Italians  met. 

The  instant  before  I  had  been  perfectly  sat- 
isfied, from  his  own  reiterated  assertion,  that 
Pesca  did  not  know  tlie  Count.  The  instant 
afterward  I  was  equally  certain  that  the  Count 
knew  Pesca ! 

Knew  him,  and — more  surprising  still— ji^arec? 
him  as  well !  There  was  no  mistaking  the 
change  that  passed  over  the  villain's  face.  The 
leaden  hue  thai  altered  his  yellow  complexion 
in  a  moment,  the  sudden  rigidity  of  all  his 
features,  the  furtive  scrutiny  of  his  cold  gray 
eyes,  the  motionless  stillness  of  him  from  head 
to  foot,  told  their  own  tale.  A  mortal  dread 
had  mastered  him,  body  and  soul;  and  his  own 
recognition  of  Pesca  was  the  cause  of  it! 

The  slim  man,  with  the  scar  on  his  cheek, 
was  still  close  by  us.     He  had  apparently  drawn 


his  inference  from  the  eflfect  produced  on  the 
Count  by  the  sight  of  Pesca,  as  I  had  drawn 
mine.  He  was  a  mild,  gentlemanlike  man, 
looking  like  a  foreigner ;  and  his  interest  in  our 
proceedings  was  not  expressed  in  any  thing  ap- 
proaching to  an  ottensive  manner. 

For  my  own  part,  I  was  so  startled  by  the 
change  in  the  Count's  face,  so  astounded  at 
the  entirely  unexpected  turn  which  events  had 
taken,  that  I  knew  neither  what  to  say  or  do 
next.  Pesca  roused  me  by  stepping  back  to  his 
former  place  at  my  side,  and  speaking  first. 

"How  the  fat  man  stares!"  he  exclaimed. 
"Is  it  at  me?  Am  /  famous?  How  can  he 
know  me,  when  I  don't  know  him?" 

I  kept  my  eye  still  on  the  Count.  I  saw  him 
move  for  the  first  time  when  Pesca  moved,  so 
as  not  to  lose  sight  of  the  little  man,  in  the 
lower  position  in  which  he  now  stood.  I  was 
curious  to  see  what  would  happen  if  Pesca's  at- 
tention, under  these  circumstances,  was  with- 
drawn from  him;  and  I  accordingly  asked  the 
Professor  if  he  recognized  any  of  his  pupils, 
that  evening,  among  the  ladies  in  the  boxes. 
Pesca  immediately  raised  the  large  opera-glass 
to  his  eyes,  and  moved  it  slowly  all  round  the 
upper  part  of  the  theatre,  searching  for  his  pu- 
pils with  the  most  conscientious  scrutiny. 

The  moment  he  showed  himself  to  be  thus 
engaged,  the  Count  turned  round,  slipped  past 
the  persons  who  occupied  seats  on  the  farther 
side  of  him  from  where  we  stood,  and  disap- 
peared in  the  middle  passage  down  the  centre 
of  the  pit.  I  caught  Pesca  by  the  arm,  and, 
to  his  inexpressible  astonishment,  huri-ied  him 
round  with  me  to  the  back  of  the  pit,  to  inter- 
cept the  Count  before  he  could  get  to  the  door. 
Somewhat  to  my  surprise,  the  slim  man  hasten- 
ed out  before  us,  avoiding  a  stoppage  caused  by 
some  people  on  our  side  of  the  pit  leavijig  their 
places,  by  which  Pesca  and  myself  were  delayed. 
When  we  reached  the  lobby  the  Count  had  dis- 
appeared, and  the  foreigner  with  the  scar  was 
gone  too. 

"Come  home,"  I  said;  "come  home,  Pesca. 
to  your  lodgings.  I  must  speak  to  you  in  pri- 
vate— I  must  speak  directly." 

"  My-soul-bless-my-soul !"  cried  the  Profess- 
or, in  a  state  of  the  extremest  bewilderment. 
"What  on  earth  is  the  matter?" 

I  walked  on  rapidly  without  answering.  The 
circumstances  under  which  the  Count  had  left 
the  theatre  suggested  to  me  that  his  extraoi'di- 
nary  anxiety  to  escape  Pesca  might  carry  him 
to  fiirtlier  extremities  still.  He  might  escape 
me,  too,  by  leaving  London.  I  doubted  the  fu- 
ture, if  I  allowed  him  so  much  as  a  day's  freedom 
to  act  as  he  jileased.  And  I  doubted  that  for- 
eign stranger  who  had  got  the  start  of  us,  and 
whom  I  suspected  of  intentionally  following  liim 
out. 

With  this  double  distrust  in  my  mind,  I  was 
not  long  in  making  Pesca  understand  what  I 
wanted.  As  soon  as  we  two  M'cre  alone  in  bis 
room,  I  increased  his  confusion  and  amazement 
a  hundred-fold  by  telling  him  what  my  purpose 
was,  as  plainly  and  unrcsenedly  as  I  have  ac- 
knowledged it  here. 

"My  friend,  wliat  can  I  do?"  cried  tlie  Pro- 
fessor, piteously  appealing  to  me  with  both 
liands.  "Dcuce-what-tlie-dcucc  !  liow  can  I 
helj) you,  Walter,  when  I  don't  know  the  man?" 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


241 


"  iJe  knows  yoji — he  is  afraid  of  you — he  has 
left  the  tlieatre  to  escape  you.  Pesca!  there 
must  bo  a  reason  for  this.  Look  back  into  your 
own  life,  before  you  came  to  England.  You 
left  Italy,  as  you  have  told  me  yourself,  for  po- 
litical reasons.  You  have  never  mentioned 
those  reasons  to  me,  and  I  don't  inquire  into 
them  now.  I  only  ask  you  to  consult  your  own 
recollections,  and  to  say  if  they  suggest  no  past 
cause  for  the  terror  which  the  first  sight  of  you 
produced  in  that  man." 

To  my  unutterable  surprise,  these  words,  harm- 
less as  they  appeared  to  me,  produced  the  same 
astounding  effect  on  Pesca  which  the  sight  of 
Pesca  had  produced  on  the  Count.  The  rosy 
face  of  my  little  friend  whitened  in  an  instant; 
and  he  drew  back  from  me  slowly,  trembling 
from  head  to  foot. 

"Walter!"  he  said.  "You  don't  know  what 
you  ask." 

He  spoke  in  a  whisper — he  looked  at  me  as 
if  I  had  suddenly  revealed  to  him  some  hidden 
danger  to  both  of  us.  In  less  than  one  minute 
of  time  he  was  so  altered  from  the  easy,  lively, 
(juaint  little  man  of  all  my  past  experience,  that 
if  I  had  met  him  in  the  street,  changed  as  I 
saw  him  now,  I  should  most  certainly  not  have 
known  him  again. 

"  Forgive  me,  if  I  have  unintentionally  pained 
and  shocked  you,"  I  replied.  "Remember  the 
cruel  wrong  my  wife  has  suii'cred  at  Count  Fos- 
co's  hands.  Remember  that  the  wrong  can  nev- 
er be  redressed,  unless  the  means  are  in  my 
power  of  forcing  him  to  do  her  justice.  I  spoke 
in  her  interest,  Pesca.  I  ask  you  again  to  for- 
give me ;  I  can  say  no  more." 

I  rose  to  go.  He  stopped  me  before  I  reached 
the  door.  • 

"Wait,"  he  said.  "You  have  shaken  me 
from  head  to  foot.  You  don't  know  how  I  left 
my  country,  and  why  I  left  my  country.  Let 
me  compose  myself — let  me  think,  if  I  can." 

I  returned  to  my  chair.  He  walked  up  and 
down  the  room,  talking  to  himself  incoherently 
in  his  own  language.  After  several  turns  back- 
ward  and  forward,  he  suddenly  came  up  to  me, 
and  laid  his  little  hands  with  a  strange  tender- 
ness and  solemnity  on  my  breast. 

"On  your  heart  and  soul,  Walter,"  he  said, 
"is  there  no  other  way  to  get  to  that  man  but 
the  chance  way  through  me?" 

"  There  is  no  other  way,"  I  answered. 

He  left  me  again,  opened  the  door  of  the 
room  and  looked  out  cautiously  into  the  pas- 
sage ;  closed  it  once  more,  and  came  back. 

"You  won  j'our  right  over  me,  Walter,"  he 
said,  "on  the  day  when  you  saved  my  life.  It 
was  yours  from  that  moment,  when  you  pleased 
to  take  it.  Take  it  now.  Yes !  I  mean  what  I 
say.  My  next  words,  as  true  as  the  good  God 
is  above  us,  will  put  my  life  into  your  hands." 

The  trembling  earnestness  with  which  he  ut- 
tered this  extraordinary  warning  carried  with 
it  to  my  mind  the  conviction  that  he  spoke  the 
truth. 

"  Mind  this !"  he  went  on,  shaking  his  hands 
at  me  in  the  vehemence  of  his  agitation.  "  I 
hold  no  thread,  in  my  own  mind,  between  that 
man  Fosco  and  the  past  time,  which  I  call  back 
to  me,  for  your  sake.  If  you  find  the  thread, 
keep  it  to  yourself — tell  me  nothing;  on  my 
knees,  I  beg  and  prav,  let  me  be  ignorant,  let 
'Q 


me  be  innocent,  let  me  be  blind  to  all  the  future, 
as  I  am  now  !" 

He  said  a  few  words  more,  hesitatingly  and 
disconnectedly — then  stojijied  again. 

I  saw  that  the  effort  of  exjjressing  himself  in 
English,  on  an  occasion  too  serious  to  permit 
him  the  use  of  the  quaint  turns  and  phrases  of 
his  ordinary  vocabulary,  was  painfully  increas- 
ing the  difficulty  he  had  felt  from  the  first  in 
speaking  to  me  at  all.  Having  learned  to  read 
and  understand  his  native  language  (though  not 
to  speak  it),  in  the  earlier  days  of  our  intimate 
companionship,  I  now  suggested  to  him  that  he 
should  express  himself  in  Italian,  while  I  used 
English  in  putting  any  question  which  might 
be  necessary  to  my  enlightenment.  He  accept- 
ed the  proposal.  In  his  own  smooth-flowing 
language — spoken  with  a  vehement  agitation 
which  betrayed  itself  in  the  perpetual  working 
of  his  features,  in  the  wildness  and  the  sudden- 
ness of  his  foreign  gesticulations,  but  never  in 
the  raising  of  his  voice — I  now  heard  the  words 
which  armed  me  to  meet  the  last  struggle  that 
is  left  for  this  story  to  record.* 

"  You  know  nothing  of  my  motive  foi-  leaving 
Italy,"  he  began,  "  except  that  it  was  for  politic- 
al reasons.  If  I  had  been  driven  to  this  coun- 
try by  the  persecution  of  my  Government,  I 
should  not  have  kept  those  reasons  a  secret 
from  you  or  from  any  one.  I  have  concealed 
them  because  no  Government  authority  has  pro- 
nounced the  sentence  of  my  exile.  You  have 
heard,  Walter,  of  the  political  societies  that  are 
hidden  in  every  great  city  on  the  continent  of 
Europe  ?  To  one  of  those  Societies  I  belonged 
in  Italy — and  belong  still,  in  England.  When 
I  came  to  this  country,  I  came  by  the  direction 
of  my  chief.  I  was  overzealous,  in  my  youn- 
ger time ;  I  i-an  the  risk  of  compromising  myself 
and  others.  For  those  reasons,  I  was  ordered 
to  emigrate  to  England,  and  to  wait.  I  emi- 
grated— I  have  waited;  I  wait  still.  To-mor- 
row I  may  be  called  away ;  ten  years  hence  I 
may  be  called  awa}'.  It  is  all  one  to  me — I  am 
here,  I  support  myself  by  teaching,  and  I  wait. 
I  violate  no  oath  (you  shall  hear  why,  present- 
ly) in  making  my  confidence  complete  by  telling 
you  the  name  of  the  Society  to  which  I  belong. 
All  I  do  is  to  put  my  life  in  your  hands.  If 
what  I  say  to  you  now  is  ever  known  by  others 
to  have  passed  my  lips,  as  certainly  as  we  t^\•o 
sit  here  I  am  a  dead  man." 

He  whispered  the  next  words  in  my  ear.  I 
keep  the  secret  which  he  thus  communicated. 
The  Society  to  which  he  belonged  will  be  sufla- 
ciently  individualized  for  the  purpose  of  these 
pages  if  I  call  it  "  The  Brotherhood,"  on  the 
few  occasions  when  any  reference  to  the  subject 
will  be  needed  in  this  place. 

"  The  object  of  the  Brotherhood,"  Pesca  went 
on,  "is,  briefly,  the  object  of  other  political 
societies  of  the  same  sort — the  destruction  of 
tyranny,  and  the  assertion  of  the  rights  of  the 
people.  The  principles  of  the  Brotherhood  are 
two.     So  long  as  a  man's  life  is  useful,  or  even 


*  It  is  only  right  to  mention  here  that  I  repeat  Pesca's 
statement  to  me,  with  the  careful  suppressions  and  al- 
terations which  the  serious  nature  of  the  subject  and  my 
own  sense  of  duty  to  my  friend  demand.  My  first  and 
last  concealments  from  the  reader  are  those  which  cau- 
tion renders  absolutely  necessary  iu  this  portion  of  the 
narrative. 


242 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


harmless  only,  he  has  the  right  to  enjoy  it.  But 
if  his  life  inflicts  injury  on  the  well-being  of  his 
fellow-men,  from  that  moment  he  forfeits  the 
right,  and  it  is  not  only  no  crime,  but  a  positive 
merit,  to  deprive  him  of  it.  It  is  not  for  me  to 
say  in  what  frightful  circumstances  of  oppression 
and  suffering  this  Society  took  its  rise.  It  is 
not  for  you  to  say — you  Englishmen,  who  have 
conquered  your  freedom  so  long  ago,  that  you 
have  conveniently  forgotten  what  blood  you 
shed,  and  what  extremities  you  proceeded  to  in 
the  conquering — it  is  not  for  you  to  say  how  far 
the  worst  of  all  exasperations  may,  or  may  not, 
caiTy  the  maddened  men  of  an  enslaved  nation. 
The  iron  that  has  entered  into  our  souls  has 
gone  too  deep  for  you  to  find  it.  Leave  the  ref- 
ugee alone !  Laugh  at  him,  distrust  him,  ojien 
your  eyes  in  wonder  at  that  secret  self  which 
smoulders  in  him,  sometimes  under  the  every- 
day respectability  and  tranquillity  of  a  man  like 
me;  sometimes  under  the  grinding  poverty,  the 
fierce  squalor,  of  men  less  lucky,  less  pliable, 
less  patient  than  I  am — but  judge  us  not!  In 
the  time  of  your  first  Charles  you  might  have 
done  us  justice ;  the  long  luxury  of  your  own 
freedom  has  made  you  incapable  of  doing  us 
justice  now." 

All  the  deepest  feelings  of  his  nature  seemed 
to  force  themselves  to  the  surface  in  those 
words — all  his  heart  was  poured  out  to  me,  for 
the  first  time  in  our  lives ;  but  still,  his  voice 
never  rose — still,  his  dread  of  the  terrible  reve- 
lation he  was  making  to  me  never  left  him. 

''  So  far,"  he  resumed,  "you  think  the  Socie- 
ty like  other  Societies.  Its  object  (in  your  En- 
glish opinion)  is  anarchy  and  revolution.  It 
takes  the  life  of  a  had  King  or  a  bad  Minister, 
as  if  the  one  and  the  other  were  dangerous  wild 
beasts,  to  be  shot  at  the  first  opportunity.  I 
grant  you  this.  But  the  laws  of  the  Brother- 
hood are  the  laws  of  no  other  political  society 
on  the  face  of  the  earth.  The  members  are  not 
known  to  one  another.  There  is  a  President  in 
Italy ;  there  are  Presidents  abroad.  Each  of 
these  has  his  Secretary.  The  Presidents  and 
the  Secretaries  know  the  members ;  but  the 
members,  among  themselves,  are  all  strangers, 
until  their  chiefs  see  fit,  in  the  political  neces- 
sity of  the  time,  or  in  the  private  necessity  of 
the  society,  to  make  them  known  to  each  otiier. 
With  such  a  safeguard  as  tJiis,  there  is  no  oath 
among  us  on  admittance.  We  are  identified 
with  the  Brotherhood  by  a  secret  mark,  which 
we  all  bear,  which  lasts  while  our  lives  last. 
We  are  told  to  go  ahout  our  ordinary  business, 
and  to  report  ourselves  to  the  President  or  the 
Secretary  four  times  a  year,  in  the  event  of  our 
services  being  required.  We  are  warned,  if  we 
betray  the  Brotherhood,  or  if  we  injure  it  by 
serving  other  intei'ests,  that  we  die  by  the  prin- 
ciples of  the  Brotherhood — die  by  the  hand  of  a 
stranger  who  may  be  sent  from  the  other  end 
of  the  world  to  strike  the  blow,  or  by  the  hand 
of  our  own  bosom  friend,  who  may  have  been  a 
member  unknown  to  us  tlirougli  all  the  years 
of  our  intimacy.  Sometimes  the  death  is  de- 
layed ;  sometimes  it  follows  close  on  the  treach- 
ery. It  is  our  first  business  to  know  how  to 
wait — our  second  busiuess  to  know  liow  to  obey 
when  tlie  word  is  spoken.  Some  of  us  may 
wait  our  lives  through,  and  may  not  be  wanted. 
Some  of  us  may  be  called  to  the  work,  or  to  the 


preparation  for  the  work,  the  very  day  of  our 
admission.  I  myself — the  little,  easy,  cheerful 
man  you  know,  who,  of  his  own  accord,  would 
hardly  lift  up  his  handkerchief  to  strike  down 
the  ily  that  buzzes  about  his  face — I,  in  my 
younger  time,  under  provocation  so  dreadful 
that  I  will  not  tell  you  of  it,  entered  the  Broth- 
erhood by  an  impulse,  as  I  might  have  killed 
myself  by  an  impulse.  I  must  remain  in  it 
now — it  has  got  me,  whatever  I  may  think  of  it 
in  my  better  circumstances  and  my  cooler  man- 
hood, to  my  dying  day.  While  I  was  still  in 
Italy,  I  was  chosen  Secretary ;  and  all  the  mem- 
bers of  that  time,  who  were  brought  face  to  face 
with  my  President,  were  brought  face  to  face 
also  with  7«e." 

I  began  to  understand  him ;  I  saw  the  end 
toward  which  his  extraordinary  disclosure  was 
now  tending.  He  waited  a  moment,  watching 
me  earnestly — watching  till  he  had  evidently 
guessed  what  was  passing  in  my  mind,  before 
he  resumed. 

"  You  have  drawn  your  own  conclusion  al- 
ready," he  said.  "  I  see  it  in  your  face.  Tell 
me  nothing ;  keep  me  out  of  the  secret  of  your 
thoughts.  Let  me  make  my  one  last  sacrifice 
of  myself,  for  your  sake — and  then  have  done 
Avith  this  subject,  never  to  return  to  it  again." 

He  signed  to  me  not  to  answer  him — rose, 
removed  his  coat,  and  rolled  up  the  shirt-sleeve 
on  his  left  arm. 

"  I  promised  you  that  this  confidence  should 
be  complete,"  he  whispered,  speaking  close  at 
my  ear,  with  his  eyes  looking  watchfully  at  the 
door.  "  Whatever  comes  of  it,  you  shall  not 
reproach  me  with  having  hidden  any  thing  from 
you  which  it  was  necessary  to  your  interests  to 
know.  I  have  said  that  the  Brothei'hood  iden- 
tifies its  members  by  a  mark  that  lasts  for  life. 
See  the  place,  and  the  mark  on  it,  for  yourself." 

He  raised  his  bare  arm,  and  showed  me,  high 
on  the  up])er  ]iart  of  it,  and  on  the  inner  side,  a 
brand  deeply  Ijurned  in  the  flesh,  and  stained 
of  a  bright  blood-red  color.  I  abstain  from  de- 
scribing the  device  which  the  brand  represent- 
ed. It  will  be  sufiicient  to  say  that  it  was  cir- 
cular in  form,  and  so  small  that  it  would  have 
been  completely  covered  by  a  shilling  coin. 

"A  man  who  has  this  mark,  branded  in  this 
plnce,"  he  said,  covering  his  arm  again,  "is  a 
member  of  the  Brotherhood.  A  man  who  has 
been  false  to  the  Brotherhood  is  discovered, 
sooner  or  later,  by  the  chiefs  who  know  him — 
Presidents  or  Secretaries,  as  the  case  may  be. 
And  a  man  discovered  by  the  chiefs  is  dead. 
No  human  laws  can  protect  him.  Remember 
what  you  have  seen  and  heard  ;  draw  what  con- 
clusions you  like ;  act  as  you  please.  But,  in 
the  name  of  God,  whatever  you  discover,  what- 
ever you  do,  tell  me  nothing!  Let  me  remain 
free  from  a  responsibility  which  it  horrifies  me 
to  think  of — which  I  know,  in  my  conscience, 
is  not  my  responsibility  now.  For  the  last  time, 
I  say  it — on  my  honor  as  a  gentleman,  on  my 
oath  as  a  Christian,  if  the  man  you  pointed  out 
at  the  Opera  knows  me,  he  is  so  altered,  or  so 
disguised,  that  I  do  not  know  him.  I  am  igno- 
rant of  his  proceedings  or  his  ])urposcs  in  En- 
gland —  I  never  saw  him,  I  never  lieard  his 
name,  to  my  knowledge,  before  to-night.  I  say 
no  more.  Leave  me  a  little,  Walter:  I  am 
overpowered  by  what  has  happened  ;  I  am  shak- 


THE  WOMAN  IN  AVHITE. 


243 


en  I\v  ■what  I  have  said.     Let  me  try  to  be  like 
myself  again,  when  we  meet  next." 

He  drojiped  into  a  chair,  and,  turning  away 
from  me,  hid  his  face  in  his  hands.     I  gently  ; 
opened  the  door,  so  as  not  to  disturb  him,  and 
spoke  my  few  parting  words  in  low  tones,  which 
he  might  hear  or  not,  as  he  pleased. 

"I  will  keep  the  memory  of  to-night  in  my 
heart  of  hearts,"  I  said.  "You  shall  never  re- 
pent the  trust  you  have  reposed  in  me.  May  I 
come  to  you  to-morrow  ?  May  I  come  as  early 
as  nine  o'clock  ?" 

"Yes,  Walter,"  he  replied,  looking  up  at  me 
kindly,  and  speaking  in  English  once  more,  as 
if  his  one  anxiety  now  was  to  get  back  to  our 
former  relations  toward  each  otiier.  "Come 
to  my  little  bit  of  breakfast,  beibre  I  go  my 
ways  among  the  pupils  that  I  teach." 

"Good-night,  Pesca." 

"Good-night,  my  friend." 

IV. 

My  first  conviction,  as  soon  as  I  found  my- 
self outside  the  house,  was  that  no  alternative 
was  left  me  but  to  act  at  once  on  the  informa- 
tion I  had  received — to  make  sure  of  the  Count 
that  night,  or  to  risk  the  loss,  if  I  only  delay- 
ed till  the  morning,  of  Laura's  last  chance.  I 
looked  at  my  watch :  it  was  ten  o'clock. 

Not  the  shadow  of  a  doubt  crossed  my  mind 
of  the  purpose  for  which  the  Count  had  left  the 
theatre.  His  escape  from  us  that  evening  was, 
beyond  all  question,  the  preliminary  only  to  his 
escape  from  London.  The  mark  of  the  Broth- 
erhood was  on  his  arm — I  felt  as  certain  of  it  as 
if  he  had  shown  me  tlie  brand  ;  and  the  betray- 
al of  the  Brotiierhood  was  on  his  conscience — I 
had  seen  it  in  his  recognition  of  Pesca. 

It  was  easy  to  understand  why  that  recog- 
nition had  not  been  mutual.  A  man  of  the 
Count's  character  would  never  risk  the  terrible 
consequences  of  turning  sp}'  without  looking  to 
his  personal  security  quite  as  carefull}'  as  he 
looked  to  his  golden  rew^ard.  Tbe  shaven  face, 
which  I  had  pointed  out  at  the  Opera,  might 
have  been  covered  by  a  beard  in  Pesca's  time; 
his  dark-brown  hair  might  be  a  wig.  The  ac- 
cident of  time  might  have  helped  him  as  well ; 
his  immense  corpulence  might  have  come  with 
his  later  years.  There  was  every  reason  why 
Pesca  should  not  have  known  him  again — every 
reason,  also,  why  he  should  have  known  Pesca, 
whose  singular  personal  appearance  made  a 
marked  man  of  him,  go  where  he  might. 

I  have  said  that  I  felt  certain  of  the  purpose 
in  the  Count's  mind  when  he  escaped  us  at  the 
theatre.     How  could  I  doubt  it,  when  I  saw, 
with  my  own  eyes,  that  he  believed  himself,  in 
spite  of  the  change  in  his  appearance,  to  have  j 
been  recognized  by  Pesca,  and  to  be,  therefore,  ] 
in  danger  of  his  life?     If  I  could  get  speech  of  j 
him  that  night — if  I  could  show  him  that  I,  too, 
knew  of  the  mortal  peril  in  which  he  stood — 
what  result  would  follow?     Plainly  this.     One 
of  us  must  be  master  of  the  situation — one  of  | 
us  must  inevitably  be  at  the  mercy  of  the  other,  j 

I  owed  it  to  myself  to  consider  the  chances 
against  me,  before  I  confronted  them.  I  owed 
it  to  my  wife  to  do-all  that  lay  in  my  poAver  to 
lessen  the  risk.   "*  i 

The  chances  against  me  wanted  no  reckoning 
up  :  they  were  all  merged  in  one.     If  the  Count 


discovered,  by  my  own  avowal,  that  the  direct 
way  to  his  safety  lay  through  my  life,  he  was 
probably  the  last  man  in  existence  who  would 
shrink  from  throwing  me  oft"  my  guard  and  tak- 
ing that  way,  when  he  had  me  alone  within  his 
reach.  The  only  means  of  defense  against  him 
on  which  I  could  at  all  rely  to  lessen  the  risk, 
presented  themselves,  after  a  little  careful  think- 
ing, clearly  enough.  Before  I  made  any  per- 
sonal acknowledgment  of  my  discovery  in  his 
presence,  I  must  place  the  discovery  itself  where 
it  would  be  ready  for  instant  use  against  him, 
and  safe  from  any  attempt  at  suppression  on  his 
part.  If  I  laid  tlie  mine  under  his  feet  before 
I  approached  him,  and  if  I  left  instructions  with 
a  third  person  to  fire  it  on  the  exjiiration  of  a 
certain  time,  unless  directions  to  the  contrary 
were  previously  received  under  my  own  hand  or 
from  my  own  lips — in  that  event,  the  Count's 
security  was  absolutely  de])endent  upon  mine, 
and  I  might  hold  tlie  vantage-ground  over  him 
securely,  even  in  his  own  house. 

This  idea  occurred  to  me  when  I  was  close  to 
the  new  lodgings  which  we  had  taken  on  return- 
ing from  the  sea-side.  I  went  in,  without  dis- 
turbing any  one,  by  the  help  of  my  key.  A 
light  was  in  the  hall ;  and  I  stole  u]i  with  it  to 
my  work-room,  to  make  my  preparations,  and 
absolutely  to  commit  myself  to  an  interview 
with  the  Count,  before  either  Laura  or  Marian 
could  have  the  slightest  suspicion  of  what  I  in- 
tended to  do. 

A  letter  addressed  to  Pesca  represented  the 
surest  measure  of  precaution  which  it  was  now 
possible  for  me  to  take.     I  wrote  as  follows: 

"The  man  whom  I  pointed  out  to  you  at  the 
Opera  is  a  member  of  the  Brotherhood,  and 
has  been  false  to  his  trust.  Put  both  these  as- 
sertions to  the  test  instant!}'.  You  know  the 
name  he  goes  by  in  England.  His  address  is 
No.  5  Forest  Road,  St.  John's  Wood.  On  the 
love  you  once  bore  me,  use  the  power  intrusted 
to  you,  without  mercy  and  witliout  delay,  against 
that  man.  I  have  risked  all  and  lost  all;  and 
the  forfeit  of  my  failure  has  been  paid  with  mv 
life." 

I  signed  and  dated  these  lines,  inclosed  them 
in  an  envelope,  and  sealed  it  up.  On  the  out- 
side I  wrote  this  direction  :  "  Keep  the  inclosure 
unopened  until  nine  o'clock  to-morrow  morn- 
ing. If  you  do  not  hear  from  me,  or  see  me, 
before  that  time,  break  the  seal  when  the  clock 
strikes,  and  read  the  contents."  I  added  my 
initials;  and  protected  the  whole  by  inclosing 
it  in  a  second  sealed  envelope,  addressed  to 
Pesca  at  his  lodgings. 

Nothing  remained  to  be  done  after  this  but 
to  find  the  means  of  sending  my  letter  to  its 
destination  i-immeJiately.  I  should  then  have 
accomplished  all  that  lay  in  my  power.  If  any 
thing  happened  to  me  in  the  Count's  house,  I 
had  now  provided  for  his  ans\vering  it  with  his 
life.  That  the  means  of  preventing  his  escape 
under  any  circumstances  whatever  were  at  Pes- 
ca's disposal,  if  he  chose  to  exert  them,  I  did 
not  for  an  instant  doubt.  The  extraordinary 
anxiety  which  he  had  expressed  to  remain  un- 
enlightened as  to  the  Count's  identity — or,  in 
other  words,  to  be  left  uncertain  enough  about 
facts  to  justify  him  to  his  own  conscience  in 
remaining  passive — betrayed  plainly  that  the 
means  of  exercising  the  terrible  justice  of  the 


244 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


Brotherhood  were  ready  to  his  hand,  although, 
as  a  naturally  humane  man,  he  had  shrunk  from 
plainly  saying  as  much  in  my  presence.  The 
deadly  certainty  with  which  the  vengeance  of 
foreign  political  societies  can  hunt  down  a  trai- 
tor to  the  cause,  hide  himself  where  he  may, 
had  been  too  often  exemplified,  even  in  my 
superficial  experience,  to  allow  of  any  doubt. 
Considering  the  subject  only  as  a  reader  of 
newspapers,  cases  recurred  to  my  memory,  both 
in  London  and  in  Paris,  of  foreigners  found 
stabbed  in  the  streets,  whose  assassins  could 
never  be  traced — of  bodies  and  parts  of  bodies 
thrown  into  the  Thames  and  the  Seine,  by  hands 
that  could  never  be  discovered — of  deaths  by 
secret  violence  which  could  only  be  accounted 
for  in  one  way.  I  have  disguised  nothing  relat- 
ing to  myself  in  these  pages ;  and  I  do  not  dis- 
guise here,  that  I  believed  I  had  written  Count 
Fosco's  death-warrant,  if  the  fatal  emergency 
happened  which  authorized  Pesca  to  open  my 
inclosure. 

I  left  my  room  to  go  down  to  the  ground- 
floor  of  the  house,  and  speak  to  the  landlord 
about  finding  me  a  messenger.  He  happened 
to  be  ascending  the  stairs  at  the  time,  and  we 
met  on  the  landing.  His  son,  a  quick  lad,  was 
the  messenger  he  proposed  to  me,  on  hearing 
what  I  wanted.  We  had  the  boy  up  stairs,  and 
I  gave  him  his  directions.  He  was  to  take  the 
letter  in  a  cab,  to  put  it  into  Professor  Pesca's 
own  hands,  and  to  bring  me  back  a  line  of  ac- 
knowledgment from  that  gentleman — returning 
in  the  cab,  and  keeping  it  at  the  door  for  my 
use.  It  was  then  nearly  half  past  ten.  I  cal- 
culated that  the  boy  might  be  back  in  twenty 
minutes,  and  that  I  might  drive  to  St.  John's 
Wood,  on  his  return,  in  twenty  minutes  more. 

When  the  lad  had  departed  on  his  errand,  I 
returned  to  my  own  room  for  a  little  while,  to 
put  certain  papers  in  order,  so  that  they  might 
be  easily  found  in  case  of  the  worst.  The  key 
of  the  old-fashioned  bureau  in  which  the  papers 
were  kept  I  sealed  up,  and  left  it  on  my  table, 
with  Marian's  name  written  on  the  outside  of 
the  little  packet.  This  done,  I  went  down  stairs 
to  the  sitting-room,  in  which  I  expected  to  find 
Laura  and  Marian  awaiting  my  return  from  the 
Oi)era.  I  felt  my  hand  trembling  for  the  first 
time  when  I  laid  it  on  the  lock  of  the  door. 

No  one  was  in  the  room  but  Marian.  She 
was  reading;  and  she  looked  at  her  watch  in 
surprise  when  I  came  in. 

"  How  early  you  are  back !"  she  said.  "  You 
must  have  come  away  before  the  Opera  was 
over." 

"Yes,"  I  replied ;  "  neither  Pesca  nor  I  wait- 
ed for  the  end.     Where  is  Laura?" 

"She  had  one  of  her  bad  headaches  this 
evening,  and  I  advised  her  to  go  to  bed  when 
wc  had  done  tea." 

I  left  the  room  again,  on  the  pretext  of  wish- 
ing to  see  whether  Laura  was  asleep.  Marian's 
quick  eyes  were  beginning  to  look  inquiringly 
at  my  face — Marian's  quick  instinct  was  begin- 
ning to  discover  that  I  had  something  weighing 
on  my  mind. 

When  I  entered  the  bedchamber,  and  softly 
approached  the  bedside  by  the  dim  flicker  of 
the  night-lamp,  my  wife  was  asleep. 

We  had  not  been  married  quite  a  month  yet. 
If  my  heart  was  heavy,  if  my  resolution  for  a 


moment  faltered  again,  when  I  looked  at  her 
face  turned  faithfully  to  my  pillow  in  her  sleep, 
when  I  saw  her  hand  resting  open  on  the  cover- 
let, as  if  it  was  waiting  unconsciously  for  mine, 
surely  there  was  some  excuse  for  me?  I  only 
allowed  myself  a  few  minutes  to  kneel  down  at 
the  bedside,  and  to  look  close  at  her — so  close 
that  her  breath,  as  it  came  and  went,  fluttered 
on  my  face.  I  only  touched  her  hand  and  her 
cheek  with  my  lips  at  parting.  She  stirred  in 
her  sleep,  and  murmured  my  name,  but  without 
waking.  I  lingered  for  an  instant  at  the  door 
to  look  at  her  again.  "  God  bless  and  keep 
you,  my  darling !"  I  whispered,  and  left  her. 

Marian  was  at  the  stair-head  waiting  for  me. 
She  had  a  folded  slip  of  paper  in  her  hand. 

"The  landlord's  son  has  brought  this  for 
you,"  she  said.  "  He  has  got  a  cab  at  the  door ; 
he  says  you  ordered  him  to  keep  it  at  your  dis- 
posal." 

"  Quite  right,  Marian.  I  want  the  cab ;  I  am 
going  out  again." 

I  descended  the  stairs  as  I  spoke,  and  looked 
into  the  sitting-room  to  read  the  slip  of  paper 
by  the  light  on  the  table.  It  contained  these 
two  sentences,  in  Pesca's  handwriting : 

"Your  letter  is  received.  If  I  don't  see  j^ou 
before  the  time  you  mention,  I  will  break  the 
seal  when  the  clock  strikes." 

I  placed  the  paper  in  my  pocket-book  iind 
made  for  the  door.  Marian  met  me  on  the 
threshold,  and  pushed  me  back  into  the  room, 
where  the  candle-light  fell  full  on  my  face.  She 
held  me  by  both  hands,  and  her  eyes  fastened 
searchingly  on  mine. 

"I  see!"  she  said,  in  a  low,  eager  whisper. 
"You  are  trying  the  last  chance  to-night." 

"  Yes,  the  last  chance  and  the  best,"  I  whis- 
pered back. 

"Not  alone!  Oh,  Walter,  for  God's  sake, 
not  alone !  Let  me  go  with  you.  Don't  refuse 
me  because  I'm  only  a  woman.  I  must  go!  I 
will  go  !  I'll  wait  outside  in  the  cab !" 

It  was  my  turn  now  to  hold  her.  She  tried 
to  break  away  from  me,  and  get  down  first  to 
the  door. 

"If  you  want  to  help  me,"  I  said,  "stop  here, 
and  sleep  in  my  wife's  room  to-night.  Only  let 
me  go  away  with  my  mind  easy  about  Laura, 
and  I  answer  for  every  thing  else.  Come,  fila- 
rian,  give  me  a  kiss,  and  show  that  you  have 
the  courage  to  wait  till  I  come  back." 

I  dared  not  allow  her  time  to  say  a  word 
more.  She  tried  to  hold  me  again.  I  unclasped 
her  hands,  and  was  out  of  the  room  in  a  mo- 
ment. The  boy  below  heard  me  on  the  stairs, 
and  opened  the  hall  door.  I  jumped  into  the 
cab  before  the  driver  could  get  off  the  box. 
"Forest  Eoad,  St.  John's  Wo'od,"  I  called  to 
him  through  the  front  window.  "Double  fare, 
if  you  get  there  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour."  "I'll 
do  it.  Sir."  I  looked  at  my  watch.  Eleven 
o'clock — not  a  minute  to  lose. 

The  rapid  motion  of  the  cab ;  the  sense  that 
every  instant  now  was  bringing  me  nearer  to 
the  Count ;  the  conviction  that  I  was  embarked 
at  last,  without  let  or  hindcrance,  on  my  haz- 
ardous enterprise,  heated  me  into  such  a  fevei 
of  excitement,  that  I  shouted  to  the  man  to  go 
faster  and  iaster.  As  we  left  the  streets,  and 
crossed  St.  John's  Wood  Eoad,  my  impatience 
so  completely  overpowered  me,  that  I  stood  up 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


245 


in  the  cab  and  stretched  my  head  out  of  the 
window  to  see  the  end  of  the  journey  before  we 
reached  it.  Just  as  a  church  clock  in  the  dis- 
tance struck  the  quarter  past,  we  turned  into 
the  Forest  Koad.  I  stopped  the  driver  a  little 
away  from  the  Count's  house — paid,  and  dis- 
missed him — and  walked  on  to  the  door. 

As  I  approached  the  garden  gate,  I  saw  an- 
other person  advancing  toward  it  also,  from  the 
direction  opposite  to  mine.  We  met  under  the 
gas-lamp  in  the  road,  and  looked  at  each  other. 
I  instantly  recognized  the  light-haired  foreigner, 
with  the  scar  on  his  cheek;  and  I  thought  he 
recognized  me.  He  said  nothing  ;  and,  instead 
of  stopping  at  the  house,  as  I  did,  he  slowly 
walked  on.  Was  he  in  the  Forest  Koad  by  ac- 
cident? or  had  he  followed  the  Count  home 
from  the  Opera? 

I  did  not  pursue  those  questions.  After  wait- 
ing a  little,  till  the  foreigner  had  slowly  passed 
out  of  sight,  I  rang  the  gate  bell.  It  was  then 
twenty  minutes  past  eleven  —  late  enough  to 
make  it  quite  easy  for  the  Count  to  get  rid  of 
me  by  the  excuse  that  he  was  in  bed. 

The  only  way  of  providing  against  this  con- 
tingency -was  to  send  in  my  name,  without  ask- 
ing any  preliminary  questions,  and  to  let  him 
know,  at  the  same  time,  that  I  had  a  serious 
motive  for  wishing  to  see  him  at  that  late  hour. 
Accordingly,  while  I  was  waiting,  I  took  out 
my  card,  and  wrote  under  my  name,  "On  im- 
portant business."  The  maid-servant  answered 
the  door  while  I  was  writing  the  last  word  in 
pencil,  and  asked  me  distrustfully  what  I 
"  pleased  to  want." 

"  Be  so  good  as  to  take  that  to  your  master," 
I  replied,  giving  her  the  card. 

I  saw,  by  the  girl's  hesitation  of  manner,  that, 
if  I  had  asked  for  the  Count  in  the  first  instance, 
she  would  only  have  followed  her  instructions 
by  telling  me  he  was  not  at  home.  She  was 
staggered  by  the  confideiice  with  which  I  gave 
her  the  card.  After  staring  at  me  in  great  per- 
turbation, she  went  back  into  the  house  with  my 
message,  closing  the  door,  and  leaving  me  to 
wait  in  the  garden. 

In  a  minute  or  so  she  reappeared.  "  Her 
master's  compliments,  and  would  I  be  so  oblig- 
ing as  to  say  what  my  business  was?"  "Take 
my  compliments  back,"  I  replied ;  "  and  say 
that  the  business  can  not  be  mentioned  to  any 
one  but  your  master."  She  left  me  again, 
again  returned,  and  this  time  asked  me  to 
walk  in. 

There  was  no  lamp  in  the  hall ;  but  by  the 
dim  light  of  the  kitchen  candle  which  the  girl 
had  brought  up  stairs  with  her,  I  saw  an  elderly 
lady  steal  noiselessly  out  of  a  back  room  on  the 
ground-floor.  She  cast  one  viperish  look  at  me 
as  I  entered  the  hall,  but  said  nothing,  and 
went  slowly  up  stairs  without  returning  my  bow. 
My  familiarity  with  Marian's  journal  sufficiently 
assured  me  that  the  elderly  lady  was  Madame 
Fosco. 

The  servant  led  me  to  the  room  which  the 
Countess  had  just  left.  I  entered  it,  and  found 
myself  face  to  face  with  the  Count. 

He  was  still  in  his  evening  dress,  except  his 
coat,  which  he  had  thrown  across  a  chair.  His 
shirt-sleeves  were  turned  up  at  the  wrists,  but 
no  higher.  A  carpet-bag  was  on  one  side  of 
him,  and  a  box  on  the  other.    Books,  papers, 


and  articles  of  wearing  apparel  were  scattered 
about  the  room.  On  a  table,  at  one  side  of  the 
door,  stood  the  cage,  so  well  known  to  me  by 
description,  which  contained  his  white  mice. 
The  canaries  and  the  cockatoo  were  probably 
in  some  other  room.  He  was  seated  before  the 
box,  packing  it,  wlien  I  went  in,  and  rose  with 
some  papers  in  his  hand  to  receive  me.  His 
face  still  betrayed  plain  traces  of  the  shock  that 
had  overwhelmed  him  at  the  Opera.  His  fat 
cheeks  hung  loose  ;  his  cold  gray  eyes  were  fur- 
tively vigilant ;  his  voice,  look,  and  manner 
were  all  sharply  suspicious  alike,  as  he  advanced 
a  step  to  meet  me,  and  requested,  with  distant 
civility,  that  I  would  take  a  chair. 

"You  come  here  on  business,  Sir?"  he  said. 
"  I  am  at  a  loss  to  know  what  that  business  can 
possibly  be." 

The  imconcealed  curiosity  with  which  he 
looked  hard  in  my  face  while  he  spoke  con- 
vinced me  that  I  had  passed  unnoticed  by  him 
at  the  Opera.  He  had  seen  Pesca  first ;  and 
from  that  moment,  till  he  left  the  theatre,  he 
had  evidently  seen  nothing  else.  My  name 
would  necessarily  suggest  to  him  that  I  had  not 
come  into  his  house  with  other  than  a  hostile 
purpose  toward  himself ;  but  he  appeared  to  be 
utterly  ignorant,  thus  far,  of  the  real  nature  of 
my  errand. 

"  I  am  fortunate  in  finding  you  hereto-night," 
I  said.  "  You  seem  to  be  on  the  point  of  taking 
a  journey  ?" 

"  Is  your  business  connected  with  my  jour- 
ney?" 

"In  some  degree." 

' '  In  what  degree  ?  Do  you  know  where  I  am 
going  to  ?" 

"  No.  I  only  know  why  you  are  leaving  Lon- 
don." 

He  slipped  by  me  with  the  quickness  of 
thought,  locked  the  door  of  the  room,  and  put 
the  key  in  his  pocket. 

"You  and  I,  Mr.  Hartright,  are  excellently 
well  acquainted  with  one  another  by  reputation," 
he  said.  "Did  it  by  any  chance  occur  to  you, 
when  you  came  to  this  house,  that  I  was  not  the 
sort  of  man  you  could  trifle  with?" 

"It  did  occur  to  me,"  I  replied.  "And  I 
have  not  come  to  trifle  with  you.  I  am  here  on 
a  matter  of  life  and  death ;  and  if  that  door 
which  you  have  locked  was  open  at  this  moment, 
nothing  you  could  say  or  do  would  induce  me  to 
I  pass  through  it." 

I  walked  farther  into  the  room,  and  stood  op- 
posite to  him,  on  the  rug  before  the  fire-place. 
He  drew  a  chair  in  front  of  the  door,  and  sat 
j  down  on  it,  with  his  left  arm  resting  on  the 
1  table.     The  cage  with  the  white  mice  was  close 
to  him ;  and  the  little  creatures  scampered  out 
j  of  their  sleeping-place,  as  his  heavy  arm  shook 
the  table,  and  peered  at  him  through  the  gaps 
j  in  the  smartly-painted  wires. 
t      "On  a  matter  of  life  and  death?"  he  repeated 
I  to  himself.     "Those  words  are  more  serious, 
perhaps,  than  you  think.     What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"What  I  say." 

The  perspiration  broke  out  thickly  on  his 
broad  forehead.  His  left  hand  stole  over  the 
edge  of  the  table.  There  was  a  drawer  in  it, 
with  a  lock,  and  the  key  was  in  the  lock.  His 
finger  and  thumb  closed  over  the  key,  but  did 
not  turn  it. 


246 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


"  So  you  know  why  I  am  leaviiif;  London?" 
he  went  on.  "  Tell  me  the  reason,  if  you  please." 
He  turned  the  key,  and  unlocked  the  drawer  as 
he  spoke. 

"I  can  do  better  than  that,"  I  replied;  "I 
can  show  you  the  reason,  if  you  like." 

"How  can  you  show  it?" 

"  You  have  got  your  coat  off,"  I  said.  "  Roll 
up  the  shirt  sleeve  on  your  left  arm,  and  you 
will  see  it  there." 

The  same  livid,  leaden  change  passed  over 
his  face  which  I  had  seen  pass  over  it  at  the 
theatre.  The  deadly  glitter  in  his  eyes  shone 
steady  and  straight  into  mine.  He  said  no- 
thing ;  but  his  left  hand  slowly  opened  the  table 
drawer,  and  softly  slipped  into  it.  The  harsh 
grating  noise  of  something  heavy  that  he  was 
moving,  unseen  to  me,  sounded  for  a  moment — 
then  ceased.  The  silence  that  followed  was  so 
intense  that  the  faint  ticking  nibble  of  the  white 
mice  at  their  wires  was  distinctly  audible  where 
I  stood. 

My  life  hung  by  a  thread ;  and  I  knew  it. 
At  that  final  moment  I  thought  with  /lis  mind — 
I  felt  with  his  fingers ;  I  was  as  certain,  as  if  I 
had  seen  it,  of  what  he  kept  hidden  from  me  in 
the  drawer. 

"  Wait  a  little,"  I  said.  "You  have  got  the 
door  locked ;  you  see  I  don't  move — you  see  my 
hands  are  empty.  Wait  a  little.  I  have  some- 
thing more  to  say." 

"You  have  said  enough,"  he  replied,  with  a 
sudden  composure,  so  unnatural  and  so  ghastly 
that  it  tried  my  nerves  as  no  outbreak  of  violence 
could  have  tried  them.  "  I  want  one  moment 
for  my  own  thoughts,  if  you  please.  Do  you 
guess  what  I  am  thinking  about?" 

"  Perhaps  I  do." 

"I  am  thinking,"  he  said,  "whether  I  shall 
add  to  the  disorder  in  this  room  by  scattering 
your  brains  about  the  fire-place." 

If  I  had  moved  at  that  moment,  I  saw  in  his 
face  that  he  would  have  done  it. 

"  I  advise  you  to  read  two  lines  of  writing 
which  I  have  about  me,"  I  rejoined,  "  before 
you  finally  decide  that  question." 

The  proposal  appeared  to  excite  his  ciiriosity. 
He  nodded  his  head.  I  took  Pesca's  acknowl- 
edgment of  the  receipt  of  my  letter  out  of  my 
pocket-book,  handed  it  to  him  at  arm's-length, 
and  returned  to  my  former  position  in  front  of 
the  fire-place. 

He  read  the  lines  aloud :  "  '  Your  letter  is  re- 
ceived. If  I  don't  hear  from  you  before  the 
time  you  mention,  I  will  break  the  seal  when 
the  clock  strikes.' " 

Another  man  in  his  position  would  have 
needed  some  explanation  of  those  words — the 
Count  felt  no  such  necessity.  One  reading  of 
the  note  showed  him  the  precaution  that  I  had 
taken,  as  plainly  as  if  he  had  been  present  at 
the  time  when  I  adopted  it.  The  expression  of 
his  face  changed  on  the  instant,  and  his  hand 
came  out  of  the  drawer  empty. 

"I  don't  lock  up  my  drawer,  Mr.  Hartright," 
he  said;  "and  I  don't  say  that  I  may  not  scat- 
ter your  brains  about  the  fire-place  yet.  But  I 
am  a  just  man,  even  to  my  enemy,  and  I  will 
acknowledge  beforehand  that  they  are  cleverer 
brains  than  I  thought  them.  Come  to  the  point. 
Sir!     You  want  something  of  me  ?" 

"I  do ;  and  I  mean  to  have  it." 


"On  conditions?" 

"  On  no  conditions." 

His  hand  dropped  into  the  drawer  again. 

"  Bah  !  we  are  traveling  in  a  circle,"  he  said ; 
"and  those  clever  brains  of  yours  are  in  danger 
again.  Your  tone  is  deplorably  imprudent,  Sir; 
moderate  it  on  the  spot!  The  risk  of  shooting 
you  on  the  place  where  you  stand  is  less  to  »«e 
than  the  risk  of  letting  you  out  of  this  house, 
except  on  conditions  that  I  dictate  and  approve. 
You  have  not  got  my  lamented  friend  to  deal 
with  now;  you  are  face  to  face  with  Fosco! 
If  the  lives  of  twenty  Mr.  Hartrights  were  the 
stepping-stones  to  my  safety,  over  all  those 
stones  I  would  go,  sustained  by  my  sublime  in- 
difierence,  self-balanced  by  my  impenetrable 
calm.  Respect  me,  if  you  love  your  own  life! 
I  summon  you  to  answer  three  questions  before 
you  open  your  lips  again.  Hear  them ;  they 
are  necessary  to  this  interview.  Answer  them 
— they  are  necessary  to  me."  He  held  up  one 
finger  of  his  right  hand.  "First  question!"  he 
said.  "You  come  here  possessed  of  information 
which  may  be  true  or  may  be  false.  Where  did 
you  get  it  ?" 

"  I  decline  to  tell  you.'' 

"No  matter:  I  shall  find  oUt.  If  that  infor- 
mation is  true — mind,  I  say,  with  the  wliole 
force  of  my  resolution,  i/^—jon  nre  making  your 
market  of  it  here  by  treachery  of  your  own,  or 
by  treachery  of  some  other  man.  I  note  that 
circumstance,  for  future  use,  in  my  memory, 
which  forgets  nothing,  and  proceed."  He  held 
up  another  finger.  "  Second  question  !  Those 
lines  you  invited  me  to  read  are  without  signa- 
ture.    Who  wrote  them?" 

"A  man  whom  /  have  every  reason  to  de- 
pend on,  and  whom  you  have  every  reason  to 
fear." 

My  answer  reached  him  to  some  purpose. 
His  left  hand  trembled  audibly  in  the  drawer. 

"How  long  do  you  give  me,"  he  asked,  put- 
ting his  third  question  in  a  quieter  tone,  "be- 
fore the  clock  strikes  and  the  seal  is  broken?" 

"  Time  enough  for  you  to  come  to  my  terms," 
I  replied. 

"  Give  me  a  plainer  answer,  Mr.  Hartright. 
What  hour  is  the  clock  to  strike  ?" 

"Nine  to-morrow  morning." 

"  Nine  to-morrow  morning?  Yes,  yes — your 
trap  is  laid  for  me  before  I  can  get  my  passport 
regulated  and  leave  London.  It  is  not  earlier, 
I  suppose?  We  will  see  about  that  presently; 
I  can  keep  you  hostage  here,  and  bargain  with 
you  to  send  for  your  letter  before  I  let  you  go. 
In  the  mean  time  be  so  good  next  as  to  men- 
tion your  terms." 

"  You  shall  hear  them.  They  are  simple,  and 
soon  stated.  You  know  whose  interests  I  repre- 
sent in  coming  here?" 

He  smiled  with  the  most  supreme  composure, 
and  carelessly  waved  his  right  hand. 

"I  consent  to  hazard  a  guess,"  he  said,  jcer- 
ingly.      "A  lady's  interests,  of  course!" 

""My  wife's  interests." 

He  looked  at  me  with  the  first  honest  expres- 
sion that  had  crossed  his  face  in  my  presence — 
an  expression  of  blank  amazement.  I  could  see 
that  I  sank  in  his  estimation,  as  a  dangerous 
man,  from  that  moment.  He  shut  up  the  drawer 
at  Once,  folded  liis  arms  over  his  breast,  and  list- 
ened to  me  witii  a  smile  of  satirical  attention. 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


247 


"You  are  well  enough  aware,"  I  went  on, 
"of  the  course  which  my  inquiries  have  taken 
for  many  months  past,  to  know  that  any  at- 
tempted denial  of  plain  facts  will  be  quite  use- 
less in  my  presence.  You  arc  j^uilty  of  an  in- 
famous conspiracy,  and  the  gain  of  a  fortune 
of  ten  thousand  pounds  was  your  motive  for  it." 

He  said  nothing.  But  his  face  became  over- 
clouded suddenly  by  a  lowering  anxiety. 

"  Keep  your  gain,"  I  said.  (His  face  light- 
ened again  immediately,  and  his  eyes  opened 
on  me  in  wider  and  wider  astonishment.)  "I 
am  not  here  to  disgrace  myself  by  bargaining 
for  money  which  has  passed  through  your  hands, 
and  which  has  been  the  price  of  a  vile  crime — " 

"Gently,  Mr.  Hartright.  Your  moral  clap- 
traps have  an  excellent  effect  in  England — keep 
them  for  yourself  and  your  own  countrymen,  if 
you  please.  The  ten  thousand  pounds  was  a 
legacy  left  to  my  excellent  wife  by  the  late  Mr. 
Eairlie.  Place  the  affair  on  those  grounds,  and 
I  will  discuss  it,  if  you  please.  To  a  man  of 
my  sentiments,  however,  the  subject  is  deplora- 
bly sordid.  I  prefer  to  pass  it  over.  I  invite 
you  to  resume  the  discussion  of  your  terms. 
What  do  you  demand  ?" 

"In  the  first  place,  I  demand  a  full  confes- 
sion of  the  conspiracy,  written  and  signed  in 
my  presence,  by  yourself" 

He  raised  his  finger  again.  "One  !"  he  said, 
checking  me  oft'  with  the  steady  attention  of  a 
practical  man. 

"  In  the  second  place,  I  demand  a  plain  proof, 
which  does  not  depend  on  your  personal  assev- 
eration, of  the  date  at  which  my  wife  left  Black- 
water  Park,  and  traveled  to  London." 

"  So  !  so  !  you  can  lay  your  finger,  I  see,  on 
the  weak 'place,"  he  remarked,  composedly. 
"Anymore?" 

"  At  present,  no  more." 

"Good!  You  have  mentioned  your  terms; 
now  listen  to  mine.  The  responsibility  to  my- 
self of  admitting  what  you  are  pleased  to  call 
the  'conspiracy,'  is  less,  perhaps,  upon  the  whole, 
than  the  responsibility  of  laying  you  dead  on 
that  hearth-rug.  Let  us  say  that  I  meet  your 
proposal — on  my  own  conditions.  The  state- 
ment you  demand  of  me  shall  be  written,  and 
the  ])lain  proof  shall  be  produced.  You  call  a 
letter  from  my  late  lamented  friend,  informing 
me  of  the  day  and  hour  of  his  wife's  arrival  in 
London,  written,  signed,  and  dated  by  himself, 
a  proof,  I  suppose?  I  can  give  you  this.  I  can 
also  send  you  to  the  man  of  whom  I  hired  the 
carriage  to  fetch  my  visitor  from  the  railway, 
on  the  day  when  she  arrived.  His  order-book 
may  help  you  to  your  date,  even  if  his  coach- 
man who  drove  me  proves  to  be  of  no  use. 
These  things  I  can  do,  and  will  do,  on  condi- 
tions. I  recite  them.  First  condition !  Ma- 
dame Fosco  and  I  leave  this  house  when" and 
how  we  please,  without  interference  of  any  kind 
on  your  part.  Second  condition !  You  wait 
here,  in  company  with  me,  to  see  my  agent,  who 
is  coming  at  seven  o'clock  in  the  morning  to 
regulate  my  affairs.  You  give  my  agent  a  writ- 
ten order  to  the  man  who  has  got  your  sealed 
letter  to  resign  his  possession  of  it.  You  wait 
here  till  my  agent  places  that  letter  unopened 
in  my  hands,  and  you  then  allow  me  one  clear 
half  hour  to  leave  the  house ;  after  which  you 
resume  your  own  freedom  of  action,  aud  go 


where  you  please.  Third  condition  !  You  give 
me  the  satisfaction  of  a  gentleman  for  your  in- 
trusion into  my  private  affiiirs,  and  for  the  lan- 
guage you  have  allowed  yourself  to  use  to  me 
at  this  conference.  The  time  and  place,  abroad, 
to  be  fixed  in  a  letter  from  my  hand  when  I  am 
safe  on  the  Continent ;  and  that  letter  to  con- 
tain a  strip  of  paper  measuring  accurately  the 
length  of  my  sword.  Those  are  my  terms.  In- 
form me  if  you  accept  them — Yes  or  No." 

The  extraordinary  mixture  of  prompt  decis- 
ion, far-sighted  cunning,  and  mountebank  bra- 
vado in  this  speech  staggered  me  for  a  moment, 
and  only  for  a  moment.  The  one  question  to 
consider  was,  whether  I  was  justified  or  not  in 
possessing  myself  of  the  means  of  establishing 
Laura's  identity,  at  the  cost  of  allowing  the 
scoundrel  who  had  robbed  her  of  it  to  escajie 
me  with  impunity.  I  knew  that  the  motive  of 
securing  the  just  recognition  of  my  wife  in  the 
birth-place  from  which  she  had  been  driven  out 
as  an  impostor,  and  of  publicly  erasing  the  lie 
that  still  profaned  her  mother's  tombstone,  was 
far  jnirer,  in  its  freedom  from  all  taint  of  evil 
passion,  than  the  vindictive  motive  which  had 
mingled  itself  with  my  purpose  from  the  first. 
And  yet  I  can  not  honestly  say  that  my  own 
moral  convictions  were  strong  enough  to  decide 
the  struggle  in  me  by  themselves.  They  were 
helped  by  my  remembrance  of  Sir  Percival's 
death.  How  awfully,  at  the  last  moment,  had 
the  working  of  the  retribution  there  been  snatch- 
ed from  my  feeble  hands !  What  right  had  I 
to  decide,  in  my  poor  mortal  ignorance  of  the 
future,  that  this  man,  too,  must  escape  with  im- 
punity, because  he  escaped  vie?  I  thought  of 
these  things — perhaps  with  the  superstition  in- 
herent in  my  nature  ;  perhaps  with  a  sense  wor- 
thier of  me  than  superstition.  It  was  hard, 
when  I  had  fastened  my  hold  o-n  him  at  last,  to 
loosen  it  again  of  my  own  accord;  but  I  forced 
myself  to  make  the  sacrifice.  In  plainer  words, 
I  determined  to  be  guided  by  the  one  higher 
motive  of  which  I  was  certain,  the  motive  of 
serving  the  cause  of  Laura  aud  the  cause  of 
Truth. 

"I  accept  your  conditions,"  I  said.  "With 
one  reservation  on  my  part." 

"What  reservation  may  that  be?"  he  asked. 

"It  refers  to  the  sealed  letter,"  I  answered. 
"I  require  you  to  destroy  it,  unopened,  in  my 
presence,  as  soon  as  it  is  placed  in  your  hands." 

My  object  in  making  this  stipulation  was  sim- 
ply to  prevent  him  from  carrying  away  written 
evidence  of  the  nature  of  my  communication 
with  Pesca.  The  fact  of  my  communication 
he  would  necessarily  discover,  when  I  gave  the 
address  to  his  agent,  in  the  morning.  But  he 
could  make  no  use  of  it  on  his  own  unsupported 
testimony,  even  if  he  really  ventured  to  try  the 
experiment,  which  need  excite  in  me  the  slight- 
est apprehension  on  Pesca's  account. 

"I  grant  your  reservation,"  he  replied,  after 
considering  the  question  gravely  for  a  minute 
or  two.  "It  is  not  worth  disjmte ;  the  letter 
shall  be  destroyed  when  it  comes  into  my 
hands." 

He  rose,  as  he  spoke,  from  the  chair  in  which 
he  had  been  sitting  opposite  to  me  up  to  this 
time.     With  one  effort  he  appeared  to  free  his 


248 


THE  WOJIAN  IN  WHITE. 


mind  from  the  whole  pressure  on  it  of  the  inter- 
view between  us,  thus  far.  "Ouf!"  he  cried, 
stretching  his  arms  luxuriously;  "the  sl<irmish 
was  hot  while  it  lasted.  Take  a  seat,  Mr.  Hart- 
right.  We  meet  us  mortal  enemies  hereafter — 
let  us,  like  gallant  gentlemen,  exchange  polite 
attentions  in  the  mean  time.  Permit  me  to  take 
the  liberty  of  calling  for  my  wife." 

He  unlocked  and  opened  the  door.  "Elean- 
or !"  he  called  out,  in  his  deep  voice.  The  lady 
of  the  viperish  face  came  in.  "  Madame  Fosco, 
Mr.  Hartriglit,"  said  the  Count,  introducing  us 
with  easy  dignity.  "My  angel,"  he  went  on, 
addressing  his  wife  ;  "  will  your  labors  of  pack- 
ing up  allow  you  time  to  make  me  some  nice 
strong  coffee  ?  I  have  writing  business  to  trans- 
act with  Mr.  Hartright,  and  I  require  the  full 
possession  of  my  intelligence  to  do  justice  to 
myself." 

Madame  Fosco  bowed  her  head  twice — once 
sternly  to  me,  once  submissively  to  her  husband 
— and  glided  out  of  the  room. 

The  Count  walked  to  a  writing-table  near  the 
window,  opened  his  desk,  and  took  from  it  sev- 
eral quires  of  paper  and  a  bundle  of  quill  pens. 
He  scattered  the  pens  about  the  table,  so  that 
they  might  lie  ready  in  all  directions  to  be  tak- 
en up  when  wanted,  and  then  cut  the  paper  into 
a  heap  of  narrow  slips,  of  the  form  used  by  pro- 
fessional writers  for  the  press.  "I  shall  make 
this  a  remarkable  document,"  he  said,  looking 
at  me  over  his  shoulder.  "Habits  of  hterary 
composition  are  perfectly  familiar  to  me.  One 
of  the  rarest  of  all  the  intellectual  accomplish- 
ments that  man  can  possess  is  the  grand  faculty 
of  arranging  his  ideas.  Immense  privilege !  I 
possess  it !     Do  you  ?" 

He  marched  backward  and  forward  in  the 
room  until  the  coffee  appeared,  humming  to 
himself,  and  marking  the  places  at  Avhich  ob- 
stacles occurred  in  the  aiTangement  of  his  ideas, 
by  striking  his  forehead,  from  time  to  time,  with 
the  palm  of  his  hand.  The  enormous  audacity 
with  which  he  seized  on  the  situation  in  which 
I  had  placed  him,  and  made  it  the  pedestal  on 
which  his  vanity  mounted,  for  the  one  cherished 
purpose  of  self-display,  mastered  my  astonish- 
ment by  main  force.  Sincerely  as  I  loathed  the 
man,  the  prodigious  strength  of  his  character, 
even  in  its  most  trivial  aspects,  impressed  toe  in 
spite  of  myself. 

The  coffee  was  brought  in  by  Madame  Fosco. 
He  kissed  her  hand  in  grateful  acknowledgment, 
and  escorted  her  to  the  door ;  returned,  poured 
out  a  cup  of  cofiee  for  himself,  and  took  it  to 
the  writing-table. 

"May  I  offer  you  some  coffee,  Mr.  Hart- 
right  ?"  he  said,  before  he  sat  down. 

I  declined. 

"What!  you  think  I  shall  poison  you?"  he 
said,  gayly.  "The  English  intellect  is  sound, 
so  far  as  it  goes,"  he  continued,  seating  hitnself 
at  the  table  ;  "  but  it  has  ono  grave  defect — it 
is  always  cautious  in  the  wrong  place." 

He  dipped  his  pen  in  the  ink,  placed  the  first 
slip  of  paper  before  him,  with  a  thump  of  his 
hand  on  the  desk,  cleared  his  throat,  and  began. 
He  wrote  witli  great  noise  and  rapidity,  in  so 
large  and  bold  a  hand,  and  with  such  wide  spaces 
between  the  lines,  that  he  reached  the  bottom 
of  the  slip  in  not  more  than  two  uiinutos  certain- 
ly from  the  time  ^vhcn  ho  started  at  the  top. 


Each  slip  as  he  finished  it  was  paged,  and  tossed 
over  his  shoulder,  out  of  his  way,  on  the  floor. 
When  his  first  pen  was  worn  out,  that  went  over 
his  shoulder  too;  and  he  pounced  on  a  second 
from  the  supply  scattered  about  the  table.  Slip 
after  slip,  by  dozens,  by  fifties,  by  hundreds,  flew 
over  his  shoulders  on  either  side  of  him,  till  he 
had  snowed  himself  up  in  paper  all  round  his 
chair.  Hour  after  hour  passed — and  there  I  sat, 
watching ;  there  he  sat,  writing.  He  never 
stopped,  except  to  sip  his  coffee ;  and  when  that 
was  exhausted,  to  smack  his  forehead,  from  time 
to  titne.  One  o'clock  struck,  two,  three,  four — 
and  still  the  slips  flew  about  all  round  him  ;  still 
the  untiring  pen  scraped  its  way  ceaselessly  from 
top  to  bottom  of  the  page  ;  still  the  white  chaos 
of  paper  rose  higher  and  higher  all  round  his 
chair.  At  four  o'clock  I  heard  a  sudden  splutter 
of  the  pen,  indicative  of  the  flourish  with  which 
he  signed  his  name.  "Bravo!"  he  cried — 
springing  to  his  feet  with  the  activity  of  a  young 
man,  and  looking  me  straight  in  the  face  with 
a  smile  of  superb  triumph. 

"Done,  Mr.  Hartright!"  he  announced,  with 
a  self-renovating  thump  of  his  fist  on  his  broad 
breast.  "  Done,  to  my  own  profound  satisfac- 
tion— to  your  profound  astonishment,  when  you 
read  what  I  have  written.  The  subject  is  ex- 
hausted :  the  Man — Fosco — is  not.  I  proceed 
to  the  arrangement  of  my  slips,  to  the  revision 
of  my  slips,  to  the  reading  of  my  slips — ad- 
dressed, emphatically,  to  your  private  ear.  Four 
o'clock  has  just  struck.  Good  !  Arrangement, 
revision,  reading,  from  four  to  five.  Short  snooze 
of  restoration  for  myself,  from  five  to  six.  Final 
preparations,  from  six  to  seven.  Affair  of  agent 
and  sealed  letter,  from  seven  to  eight.  At  eight, 
en  route.     Behold  the  programme!" 

He  sat  down  cross-legged  on  the  floor  among 
his  papers  ;  strung  them  togetiier  with  a  bodkin 
and  a  piece  of  string  ;  revised  them  ;  wrote  all 
the  titles  and  lionors  by  which  he  was  personally 
distinguished  at  the  head  of  the  first  page  ;  and 
then  read  the  manuscript  to  me,  with  loud  the- 
atrical emphasis  and  profuse  theatrical  gesticu- 
lation. The  reader  will  have  an  opportunity 
ere  long  of  forming  his  own  opinion  of  the  docn- 
ment.  It  will  be  sufficient  to  mention  here  that 
it  answered  my  purpose. 

His  next  proceeding  was  to  write  me  the  ad- 
dress of  tlie  person  from  whom  he  had  hired  the 
fly  to  go  to  the  railway,  and  to  hand  me  Sir  Per- 
cival's  letter.  I  read  this  last  with  breathless 
interest.  It  only  contained  a  few  lines  ;  but  it 
distinctly  announced  the  arrival  of"  Lady  Glyde" 
in  London,  by  the  mid-day  train  from  Blackwa- 
ter,  on  the  2'dth  of  Jul y,  1850 — exactly,  as  I  had 
supposed,  one  day  after  the  date  of  her  (as- 
sumed) death  on  fhe  doctor's  certificate. 

"  Are  you  satisfied  ?"  asked  the  Count. 

"I  am." 

"A  quarter  past  five,"  he  said,  looking  at  his 
watch.  "Time  for  my  restorative  snooze.  I 
personally  resemble  Napoleon  the  Great  (as  you 
may  have  remarked,  Mr.  Hartright) — I  also  re- 
semble that  immortal  man  in  my  power  of  com- 
manding sleo])  at  will.  Excuse  me  one  moment, 
I  will  summon  Madame  Fosco,  to  keep  you  from 
feeling  dull." 

Knowing  as  well  as  he  did  that  he  was  sum- 
moning Madame  Fosco  to  insure  my  not  leav- 
ing the  house  while  he  M-as  aslec]),  I  made  no 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


249 


reply,  and  occupied  myself  in  tying  up  the  papers 
which  he  had  placed  in  my  possession. 

The  lady  came  in,  cool,  pale,  and  venomous 
as  ever.  "Amuse  Mr.  Hartright,  my  angel," 
said  the  Count.  He  placed  a  chair  for  her, 
kissed  her  hand  for  the  second  time,  withdrew 
to  a  sofa,  and  in  three  minutes  was  as  peacefully 
and  happily  asleejj  as  the  most  virtuous  man  in 
existence. 

Madame  Fosco  took  a  book  from  the  table, 
sat  down,  and  looked  at  me  with  the  steady, 
vindictive  malice  of  a  woman  who  never  forgot 
and  never  forgave. 

"  I  have  been  listening  to  your  conversation 
with  my  husband,"  she  said.  "If  I  had  been 
in  his  place,  7  would  have  laid  you  dead  on  the 
hearth-rug." 

With  those  words  she  opened  her  book  and 
never  looked  at  me  or  spoke  to  me  from  that 
time  till  the  time  when  her  husband  woke. 

He  opened  his  eyes  and  rose  from  the  sofa, 
accurately  to  an  hour  from  the  time  when  he 
had  gone  to  sleep. 

"  I  feel  infinitely  refreshed,"  he  remarked. 
"  Eleanor,  my  good  wife,  arc  you  all  ready  up 
stairs  ?  That  is  well.  My  little  packing  here 
can  be  completed  in  ten  minutes — my  traveling- 
dress  assumed  in  ten  minutes  more.  What  re- 
mains before  the  agent  comes  ?"  He  looked 
about  the  room,  and  noticed  the  cage  with  his 
white  mice  in  it.  '•  Ah !"  he  cried,  piteously  ; 
"  a  last  laceration  of  my  sympathies  still  re- 
mains. My  innocent  pets !  my  little  cherished 
children !  what  am  I  to  do  with  them  ?  For 
the  present,  we  are  settled  nowhere ;  for  the 
])resent,  we  travel  incessantly — the  less  baggage 
we  carry,  the  better  for  ourselves.  My  cockatoo, 
my  canaries,  and  my  little  mice — who  will  cher- 
ish them,  when  their  good  Papa  is  gone?" 

He  walked  about  the  room,  deep  in  thought. 
He  had  not  been  at  all  troubled  about  writing 
his  confession,  but  he  was  visibly  perplexed  and 
distressed  about  the  far  more  important  question 
of  the  disposal  of  his  pets.  After  long  consider- 
ation, he  suddenly  sat  down  again  at  the  writing- 
table. 

"  An  idea  !"  he  exclaimed.  "  I  will  offer  my 
canaries  and  my  cockatoo  to  this  vast  Metropo- 
lis— my  agent  shall  present  them,  in  my  name, 
to  the  Zoological  Gardens  of  London.  The 
Document  that  describes  them  shall  be  drawn 
out  on  the  spot." 

He  began  to  write,  repeating  the  words  as 
they  flowed  from  his  pen. 

"Number  One.  Cockatoo  of  transcendant 
plumage :  attraction,  of  himself,  to  all  visitors 
of  taste.  Number  Two.  Canaries  of  unrivaled 
vivacity  and  intelligence  :  worthy  of  the  garden 
of  Eden,  worthy  also  of  the  garden  in  the  Ke- 
gent's  Park.  Homage  to  British  Zoology.  Of- 
fered by  Fosco." 

The  pen  spluttered  again,  and  the  flourish 
was  attached  to  his  signature. 

"  Count !  you  have  not  included  the  mice," 
said  Madame  Fosco. 

He  left  the  table,  took  her  hand,  and  placed 
it  on  his  heart. 

"All  human  resolution,  Eleanor,"  he  said, 
solemnly,  "has  its  limits.  My  limits  are  in- 
scribed on  that  Document.  I  can  not  part  with 
my  white  mice.  Bear  with  me,  my  angel,  and 
remove  them  to  their  traveling-cage  up  stairs." 


"Admirable  tenderness!"  said  Madame  Fos- 
co, admiring  her  husband,  with  a  last  viperisli 
look  in  my  direction.  She  took  up  the  cage 
carefully,  and  left  the  room. 

The  Count  looked  at  his  watch.  In  spite  of 
his  resolute  assumption  of  composure,  he  was 
getting  anxious  for  the  agent's  arrival.  The 
candles  had  long  since  been  extinguished,  and 
the  sunlight  of  the  new  morning  poured  into  the 
room.  It  was  not  till  five  minutes  past  seven 
that  the  gate  bell  rang  and  the  agent  made  his 
appearance.  He  was  a  foreigner,  with  a  dark 
beard. 

"Mr.  Hartright,  Monsieur  Rubelle,"said  the 
Count,  introducing  us.  He  took  the  agent  (a 
foreign  spy,  in  every  line  of  his  face,  if  ever 
there  was  one  yet)  into  a  corner  of  the  room, 
wliispered  some  directions  to  him,  and  then  left 
us  together.  Monsieur  Eubelle,  as  soon  as  we 
were  alone,  suggested,  with  great  politeness, 
that  I  should  faTor  him  with  his  instructions. 
I  wrote  two  lines  to  Pesca,  authorizing  him  to 
deliver  my  sealed  letter  "to  the  Bearer;"  di- 
rected the  note ;  and  handed  it  to  Monsieul 
Rubelle. 

The  agent  waited  with  me  till  his  employer' 
returned,  equipped  in  traveling  costume.  Th& 
Count  examined  the  address  on  my  letter  before^ 
he  dismissed  the  agent.  "I  thought  so!"  he- 
said,  turning  on  me  with  a  dark  look,  and  al- 
tering again  in  his  manner  from  that  moment. 

He  completed  his  packing ;  and  then  sat  con- 
sulting a  traveling  map,  making  entries  in  his 
pocket-book,  and  looking,  every  now  and  then, 
impatiently  at  his  watch.  Not  another  word, 
addressed  to  myself,  passed  his  lips.  The  near 
approach  of  the  hour  for  his  departure,  and  the 
proof  he  had  seen  of  the  communication  estab- 
lished between  Pesca  and  myself,  had  plainly 
recalled  his  whole  attention  to  the  measures 
that  were  necessary  for  securing  his  escape. 

A  little  before  eight  o'clock.  Monsieur  Ru- 
belle came  back  with  my  unopened  letter  in  his 
hand.  The  Count  looked  carefully  at  the  su- 
perscription and  the  seal,  lit  a  candle,  and 
burned  the  letter.  "I  perform  my  promise," 
he  said ;  "  but  this  matter,  Mr.  Hartright,  shall 
not  end  here." 

The  agent  had  kept  at  the  door  the  cab  in 
which  he  had  returned.  He  and  the  maid- 
servant now  busied  themselves  in  removing  the 
luggage.  Madame  Fosco  came  down  stairs 
thickly  vailed,  with  the  traveling  cage  of  the 
white  mice  in  her  hand.  She  neither  spoke  to 
me  nor  looked  toward  me.  Her  husband  es- 
corted her  to  the  cab.  "Follow  me  as  far  as 
the  passage,"  he  whispered  in  my  ear  ;  "I  may 
want  to  speak  to  you  at  the  last  moment." 

I  went  out  to  the  door,  the  agent  standing 
below  me  in  the  front  garden.  The  Count  came 
back  alone,  and  drew  me  a  few  steps  inside  the 
passage. 

"Remember  the  Third  condition!"  he  whis- 
pered. "You  shall  hear  from  me,  Mr.  Hart- 
right ;  I  may  claim  from  you  the  satisfaction  of 
a  gentleman  sooner  than  you  think  for."  He 
caught  my  hand  before  I  was  aware  of  him,  and 
wrung  it  hard — then  turned  to  the  door,  stopped, 
and  came  back  to  me  again. 

"One  word  more,"  he  said,  confidentially. 
"When  I  last  saw  Miss  Halcombe,  she  looked 
thin  and  ill.     I  am  anxious  about  that  admira- 


250 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WfllTE. 


ble  woman.  Take  care  of  her,  Sir !  With  my 
hand  on  my  heart,  I  solemnly  implore  you — 
take  care  of  Miss  Halcombe  !" 

Those  were  the  last  words  he  said  to  me  be- 
fore he  squeezed  his  huge  body  into  the  cab  and 
drove  off. 

The  agent  and  I  waited  at  the  door  a  few 
moments,  looking  after  him.  While  we  were 
standing  together,  a  second  cab  appeared  from 
a  turning  a  little  way  down  the  road.  It  fol- 
lowed the  direction  previously  taken  by  the 
Count's  cab,  and  as  it  passed  the  house  and 
the  open  garden  gate  a  person  inside  looked  at 
us  out  of  the  window.  The  stranger  at  the  Op- 
era again !  the  light-haired  foreigner  with  the 
scar  on  his  left  cheek ! 

"You  wait  here  with  mc,  Sir,  for  half  an 
hour  more  ?"  said  Monsieur  Rubelle. 

"I  do." 

We  returned  to  the  sitting-room.  I  was  in 
no  humor  to  speak  to  the  agent,  or  to  allow  him 
to  speak  to  me.  I  took  out  the  papers  which 
the  Count  had  placed  in  my  hands,  and  read 
the  terrible  story  of  the  conspiracy  told  by  the 
man  who  had  planned  and  perpetrated  it. 


THE  NARRATIVE  OF  ISIDOR  OTTA- 
VIO  BALDASSARE  FOSCO.  COUNT  OF 
THE  HOLY  ROMAN  EMPIRE.  KNIGHT 
GRAND  CROSS  OF  THE  ORDER  OF 
THE  BRAZEN  CROWN.  ARCH -MAS- 
TER OF  THE  ROSICRUCIAN  MASONS 
OF  MESOPOTAMIA.  ATTACHED,  IN 
HONORARY  CAPACITIES,  TO  SOCIE- 
TIES MEDICAL,  SOCIETIES  MUSIC- 
AL, SOCIETIES  PHILOSOPHICAL,  AND 
SOCIETIES  GENERAL  BENEVOLENT, 
THROUGHOUT  EUROPE,  ETC.,  ETC. 

In  the  summer  of  eighteen  hundred  and  fifty 
I  arrived  in  England,  charged  with  a  delicate 
political  mission  from  abroad.  Confidential 
persons  were  semi-officially  connected  with  me, 
whose  exertions  I  was  authorized  to  direct — 
Monsieur  and  Madame  Rubelle  being  among  the 
number.  Some  weeks  of  spare  time  were  at  my 
disposal  before  I  entered  on  my  functions  by 
establishing  myself  in  the  suburbs  of  London. 
Curiosity  may  stop  here,  to  ask  for  some  expla- 
nation of  those  functions  on  my  part.  I  entire- 
ly sympathize  with  the  question.  I  also  regret 
that  diplomatic  reserve  forbids  me  to  comply 
with  it. 

I  arranged  to  pass  the  preliminary  period  of 
repose,  to  which  I  have  just  referred,  in  the  su- 
]ierb  mansion  of  my  late  lamented  friend.  Sir 
Percival  Clyde.  lie  arrived  from  the  Continent 
with  his  wife  ;  /arrived  from  the  Continent  with 
mine.  England  is  the  land  of  domestic  happi- 
ness— how  appropriately  we  entered  it  under 
these  domestic  circumstances ! 

The  bond  of  friendship  which  united  Percival 
and  myself  was  strengthened,  on  this  occasion, 
by  a  touching  similarity  in  the  pecuniary  posi- 
tion on  his  side  and  on  mine.  We  both  wanted 
money.  Immense  necessity  !  Universal  want! 
Is  there  a  civilized  hunum  being  who  does  not 
feel  for  us  ?  How  insensible  must  that  man  be  ! 
Or  how  rich ! 

I   enter   into  no   sordid  particulars  in  dis- 


cussing this  part  of  the  subject.  My  mind  re- 
coils from  them.  With  a  Roman  austerity  I 
show  my  em)>ty  purse  and  Percival's  to  the 
shrinking  public  gaze.  Let  us  allow  tlie  de- 
plorable fact  to  assert  itself,  once  for  all,  in  that 
manner,  and  pass  on. 

We  were  received  at  the  mansion  by  the  mag- 
nificent creature  who  is  inscribed  on  my  heart 
as  "Marian" — who  is  known  in  the  colder  at- 
mosphere of  Society  as  "Miss  Halcombe." 

Just  Heaven!  with  what  inconceivable  rapid- 
ity I  learned  to  adore  that  woman.  At  sixty  I 
worshiped  her  with  the  volcanic  ardor  of  eight- 
!  een.  All  the  gold  of  my  rich  nature  was  poured 
I  hopelessly  at  her  feet.  My  wife — poor  angel ! — 
my  wife,  who  adores  me,  got  nothing  but  the 
shillings  and  the  j)ennies.  Such  is  the  World ; 
such  jMan ;  such  Love.  What  are  we  (I  ask) 
but  puppets  in  a  show-box?  Oh,  omnipotent 
Destiny,  pull  our  strings  gently!  Dance  us 
mercifully  off  our  miserable  little  stage! 

The  preceding  lines,  riglitly  understood,  ex- 
press an  entire  system  of  philcsophy.    It  is  Mine. 

I  resume. 

The  domestic  position  at  the  commencement 
of  our  residence  at  Blackwater  Park  has  been 
drawn  with  amazing  accuracy,  with  profound 
mental  insight,  by  the  hand  of  Marian  herself. 
(Pass  me  the  intoxicating  familiarity  of  men- 
tioning this  sublime  creature  by  her  Christian 
name  I)  Accurate  knowledge  of  the  contents 
of  her  journal — to  Avhich  I  obtained  access  by 
clandestine  means,  unspeakably  precious  to  me 
in  the  remembrance — warns  my  eager  pen  from 
topics  which  this  essentially  exhaustive  woman 
has  already  made  her  own. 

The  interests — interests,  breathless  and  im- 
mense ! — with  which  I  am  here  concerned,  begin 
with  the  deplorable  calamity  of  Marian's  illness. 
The  situation,  at  this  period,  was  emphatical- 
ly a  serious  one.     Large  sums  of  money,  due  at 
a  certain  time,  were  wanted  by  Percival  (I  say 
nothing  of  the  modicum  equally  necessary  to 
myself) ;  and  the  one  source  to  look  to  for  sup- 
plying them  was  the  fortune  of  his  wife,  of  which 
1  not  one  farthing  was  at  his  disposal  until  her 
!  death.     Bad,  so  far ;  but — in  the  language  of 
the  all-pervading  Shakspeare — worse  remained 
i  behind.     My  lamented  friend  had  private  trou- 
1  bles  of  his  own,  into  which  the  delicacy  of  my 
disinterested    attachment   to   him  forbade   me 
from  inquiring  too  curiously.     I  knew  nothing 
j  but  that  a  woman,  named  Anne  Catherick,  was 
I  hidden  in  the  neighborhood;  that  she  was  in 
j  communication  with  Lady  Clyde  ;  and  that  the 
I  disclosure  of  a  secret,  which  would  be  the  cer- 
tain ruin  of  Percival,  might  be  the  result.     He 
had  told  me  hiriiself  that  he  was  a  lost  man, 
unless  his  wife  was  silenced,  and  unless  Anne 
Catherick  was  found.     If  he  was  a  lost  man, 
what  would  become  of  our  pecuniary  interests? 
Courageous  as  I  am  by  nature,  I  absolutely  trem- 
bled at  the  idea ! 

The  whole  force  of  my  intelligence  was  now 
i  directed  to  the  finding  of  Anne  Catherick.    Our 
money  aliairs,  inqiortant  as  they  were,  admitted 
of  delay  ;  but  the  necessity  of  discovering  the 
;  woman  admitted  of  none.     I  only  knew  her,  by 
description,  as  presenting  an  exti-aordinary  per- 
j  sonal  resemblance  to  Lady  Glyde.     The  state- 
ment of  this  curious  fact — intended  merelv  to 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


251 


assist  me  in  itlentifving  the  person  of  whom  wc 
were  in  search — when  coupled  with  the  addi- 
tional information  tliat  Anne  Catherick  had  es- 
caped from  a  mad-house,  started  the  first  im- 
mense conception  in  my  mind  which  subse- 
quently led  to  such  amazing  results.  That  con- 
ception involved  nothing  less  than  the  complete 
transformation  of  two  separate  identities.  Lady 
Glydc  and  Anne  Catherick  were  to  change 
names,  places,  and  destinies,  the  one  with  the 
otlier  —  the  prodigious  consecpiences  contem- 
plated by  the  change  being  the  gain  of  thirty 
thousand  pounds,  and  the  eternal  preservation 
of  Percival's  secret. 

My  instincts  (which  seldom  err)  suggested  to 
mc,  on  reviewing  the  circumstances,  that  our  in- 
visible Anne  would,  sooner  or  later,  return  to  the 
boat-house  at  the  Blackwater  Lake.  There  I 
posted  myself,  previously  mentioning  to  Mrs. 
Michelson,  the  housekeeper,  that  I  might  be 
found  when  wanted,  immersed  in  study,  in  that 
solitary  place.  It  is  my  rule  never  to  make  un- 
necessary mysteries,  and  never  to  set  people  sus- 
pecting me  for  want  of  a  little  seasonable  can- 
dor on  my  part.  Mrs.  Michelson  believed  in  me 
from  first  to  last.  This  lady-like  person  (wid- 
ow of  a  Protestant  Priest)  overflowed  with  faith. 
Touched  by  such  superfluity  of  simple  confi- 
dence in  a  woman  of  her  mature  years,  I  open- 
ed the  ample  reservoirs  of  my  nature,  and  ab- 
sorbed it  all. 

I  was  rewarded  for  posting  myself  sentinel  at 
the  lake,  by  the  appearance — not  of  Anne  Cath- 
erick herself,  but  of  the  person  in  charge  of 
her.  This  individual  also  overflowed  with  sim- 
ple faith,  which  I  absorbed  in  myself,  as  in  the 
case  already  mentioned.  I  leave  her  to  de- 
scribe the  circumstances  (if  she  has  not  done  so 
already)  under  which  she  introduced  me  to  the 
object  of  her  maternal  care.  When  I  first  saw 
Anne  Catherick  she  was  asleep.  I  was  electri- 
fied by  the  likeness  between  this  unhap])y  wo- 
man and  Lady  Clyde.  The  details  of  the  grand 
scheme,  which  had  suggested  themselves  in  out- 
line only  up  to  that  period,  occurred  to  me,  in 
all  their  masterly  combination,  at  the  sight  of 
the  sleeping  face.  At  the  same  time  my  heart, 
nlways  accessible  to  tender  influences,  dissolved 
in  tears  at  the  spectacle  of  suffering  before  me. 
I  instantly  set  myself  to  impart  relief.  In  oth- 
er words,  I  provided  tlie  necessary  stimulant  for 
strengthening  Anne  Catherick  to  perform  the 
journey  to  London. 

At  this  point  I  enter  a  necessary  protest,  and 
correct  a  lamentable  error. 

The  best  years  of  my  life  have  been  passed  in 
the  ardent  study  of  medical  and  chemical  sci- 
ence. Chemistry,  especially,  has  always  had 
irresistible  attractions  for  me,  from  the  enor- 
mous, the  illimitable  power  which  the  knowl- 
edge of  it  confers.  Chemists,  I  assert  it  em- 
phatically, might  sway,  if  they  pleased,  the  des- 
tinies of  humanity.  Let  me  explain  this  before 
I  go  farther. 

Mind,  they  say,  rules  the  world.  But  what 
rules  the  mind  ?  '  The  body.  The  body  (follow 
me  closely  here)  lies  at  the  mercy  of  the  most 
omnipotent  of  all  mortal  potentates — the  Chem- 
ist. Give  me,  Fosco,  Chemistry ;  and  when 
Shakspeare  has  conceived  Hamlet,  and  sits 
down  to  execute  the  conception — with    a  few 


grains  of  powder  dropped  into  his  daily  food,  I 
will  reduce  his  mind,  by  the  action  of  his  body, 
till  his  pen  pours  out  the  most  abject  dri\el  that 
has  ever  degraded  paper.  Under  similar  cir- 
cumstances, revive  me  tlie  illustrious  Newton. 
I  guarantee  that,  w  hen  he  sees  the  apple  fall,  ho 
shall  eat  it,  instead  of  discovering  the  principle 
of  gravitation,  Nero's  dinner  shall  transform 
Nero  into  the  mildest  of  men  before  he  has 
done  digesting  it ;  and  the  morning  draught  of 
Alexander  the  Great  shall  make  Alexander  run 
for  his  life,  at  the  first  sight  of  the  enemy,  the 
same  afternoon.  On  my  sacred  word  of  honor, 
it  is  lucky  for  society  that  modern  chemists  are, 
by  incomprehensible  good  fortune,  the  most 
harmless  of  mankind.  The  mass  are  good  fa- 
thers of  families  who  keep  shops.  The  few  arc 
j)hiloso])hers  besotted  with  admiration  for  the 
sound  of  their  own  lecturing  voices ;  visionaries 
who  waste  their  lives  on  fantastic  impossibili- 
ties; or  quacks  whose  ambition  soars  no  higher 
than  our  corns.  Thus  Society  escapes ;  and 
the  illimitable  power  of  Chemistry  remains  the 
slave  of  tlie  most  superficial  and  the  most  insig- 
nificant ends. 

Why  this  outbm'st  ?  Why  this  withering  elo- 
quence? 

Because  my  conduct  has  been  misrepresented; 
because  my  motives  have  been  misunderstood. 
It  has  been  assumed  that  I  used  my  vast  chem- 
ical resources  against  Anne  Catherick ;  and  that 
I  would  have  iised  them,  if  I  could,  against  the 
magnificent  Marian  herself.  Odious  insinua- 
tions both !  All  my  interests  were  concerned 
(as  will  be  seen  presently)  in  the  preservation 
of  Anne  Catherick's  life.  All  my  anxieties 
were  concentrated  on  Marian's  rescue  from  the 
hands  of  the  licensed  Imbecile  who  attended 
her,  and  who  found  my  advice  confirmed,  from 
first  to  last,  by  the  physician  from  London.  On 
two  occasions  only— both  equally  harmless  to 
the  individual  on  whom  I  practiced — did  I  sum- 
mon to  myself  the  assistance  of  chemical  knowl- 
edge. On  the  first  of  the  two,  after  following 
Marian  to  the  Inn  at  Blackwater  (studying,  be- 
hind a  convenient  wagon  which  hid  me  from 
her,  the  poetry  of  motion,  as  embodied  in  her 
walk),  I  availed  myself  of  the  services  of  my  in- 
valuable wife,  to  copy  one  and  to  intercept  the 
other  of  two  letters  which  my  adored  enemy  had 
intrusted  to  a  discarded  maid.  In  this  case,  the 
letters  being  in  the  bosom  of  the  girl's  dress, 
Madame  Fosco  could  only  open  them,  read 
them,  ])erform  her  instructions,  seal  them,  and 
])ut  them  back  again,  by  scientific  assistance — 
which  assistance  I  rendered  in  a  half-ounce  bot- 
tle. The  second  occasion,  when  the  same  means 
were  employed,  was  the  occasion  (to  which  1 
shall  soon  refer)  of  Lady  Clyde's  arrival  in  Lon- 
don. Never,  at  any  other  time,  was  I  indebted 
to  my  Art,  as  distinguished  from  myself.  To 
all  other  emergencies  and  complications  my 
natural  capacity  for  grappling,  single-handed, 
with  circumstances,  was  invariably  equal.  I  af- 
firm the  all-pervading  intelligence  of  that  ca- 
])acity.  At  the  expense  of  the  Chemist,  I  vin- 
dicate the  Man. 

Respect  this  outburst  of  generous  indignation. 
It  has  inexpressibly  relieved  me.  En  route! 
Let  us  proceed. 

Having  suggested  to  Mrs.  Clement  (or  Cle- 


252 


THE  WOSIAN  IN  WHITE. 


ments,  I  am  not  sure  wliich)  that  the  best  meth- 
od of  keeping  Anne  out  of  Percival's  reach  was 
to  remove  her  to  London  ;  having  found  that  my 
proposal  was  eagei'ly  received ;  and  having  ap- 
pointed a  day  to  meet  the  travelers  at  the  sta- 
tion, and  to  see  them  leave  it,  I  was  at  liberty 
to  i-eturn  to  the  house,  and  to  confront  the  dif- 
ficulties which  still  remained  to  be  met. 

My  first  pi'oceeding  was  to  avail  myself  of  the 
sublime  devotion  of  my  wife.  I  had  arranged 
with  Mrs.  Clements  that  she  should  communi- 
cate her  London  address,  in  Anne's  interests, 
to  Lady  Glyde.  But  this  was  not  enough.  De- 
signing persons,  in  my  absence,  might  shake  the 
simple  confidence  of  Mrs.  Clements,  and  she 
might  not  write,  after  all.  Who  could  I  find 
capable  of  traveling  to  London  by  the  train  she 
traveled  by,  and  of  pi'ivately  seeing  her  home  ? 
I  asked  myself  this  question.  The  conjugal  part 
of  me  immediately  answered,  Madame  Fosco. 

After  deciding  on  my  wife's  mission  to  Lon- 
don, I  arranged  that  the  journey  should  serve  a 
double  purpose.  A  nurse  for  the  suffering  Ma- 
rian, equally  devoted  to  the  patient  and  to  my- 
self, was  a  necessity  of  my  position.  One  of  the 
most  eminently  confidential  and  capable  women 
in  existence  was,  by  good  fortune,  at  my  dispos- 
al. I  refer  to  that  respectable  matron,  Madame 
Rubelle — to  whom  I  addressed  a  letter,  at  her 
residence  in  London,  by  the  hands  of  my  wife. 
.  On  the  appointed  day  Mrs.  Clements  and 
Anne  Catherick  met  me  at  the  station.  I  po- 
litely saw  them  oft^'.  I  politely  saw  Madame 
Fosco  off  by  the  same  train.  The  last  thing  at 
night,  my  wife  returned  to  Blackwater,  having 
followed  her  instructions  with  the  most  unim- 
peachable accuracy.  She  was  accompanied  by 
Madame  Rubelle,  and  slie  brought  me  the  Lon- 
don address  of  Mrs.  Clements.  After-events 
proved  this  last  precaution  to  have  been  un- 
necessary. Mrs.  Clements  punctually  informed 
Lady  Glyde  of  her  place  of  abode.  With  a  wary 
eye  on  future  emergencies,  I  kept  the  letter. 

The  same  day  I  had  a  brief  interview  with 
the  doctor,  at  which  I  protested,  in  the  sacred 
interests  of  humanity,  against  his  treatment  of 
Marian's  case.  He  was  insolent,  as  all  ignorant 
people  are.  I  showed  no  resentment.  I  de- 
ferred quarreling  with  him  till  it  was  necessary 
to  quarrel  to  some  purpose. 

My  next  proceeding  was  to  leave  Blackwater 
myself.  I  had  my  London  residence  to  take, 
in  anticipation  of  coming  events.  I  had  also  a 
little  business,  of  tlie  domestic  sort,  to  transact 
with  Mr.  Frederick  Fairlie.  I  found  the  house 
I  wanted  in  St.  John's  Wood.  I  found  Mr.  Fair- 
lie  at  Limmeridge,  Cumberland. 

My  own  private  familiarity  with  the  nature 
of  Marian's  correspondence  had  previously  in- 
formed me  that  she  had  written  to  Mr.  Fairlie, 
proposing,  as  a  relief  to  Lady  Clyde's  matrimo- 
nial embarrassments,  to  take  her  on  a  visit  to 
her  uncle  in  Cumberland.  This  letter  I  had 
wisely  allowed  to  reach  its  destination  ;  feeling, 
at  the  time,  that  it  could  do  no  harm,  and  might 
do  good.  I  now  presented  myself  before  Mr. 
Fairlie,  to  support  Marian's  own  proposal,  with 
certain  modifications  wliicli,  h.ai)])ily  for  the  suc- 
cess of  my  plans,  were  rendered  really  inevita- 
ble by  her  illness.  It  was  necessary  that  Lady 
Glyde  sliould  leave  Blackwater  alone,  by  her 
uncle's  invitation,  and  that  she  should  rest  a 


night  on  the  journey  at  her  aunt's  house  (the 
house  I  had  taken  in  St.  John's  Wood),  by  her 
uncle's  express  advice.  To  achieve  tiiese  re- 
sults, and  to  secure  a  note  of  invitation  which 
could  be  shown  to  Lady  Glyde,  were  the  objects 
of  my  visit  to  Mr.  Fairlie.  When  I  have  men- 
tioned that  this  gentleman  was  equally  feeble  in 
mind  and  body,  and  that  I  let  loose  the  whole 
force  of  my  character  on  him,  I  have  said  enough. 
I  came,  saw,  and  conquered  Fairlie. 

On  my  return  to  Blackwater  Park  (with  the 
letter  of  invitation)  I  found  that  the  doctor's 
imbecile  treatment  of  Marian's  case  had  led 
to  the  most  alarming  results.  The  fever  had 
turned  to  Typhus.  Lady  Glyde,  on  the  day  of 
my  return,  tried  to  force  herself  into  the  room 
to  nurse  her  sister.  She  and  I  had  no  affinities 
of  sympathy ;  she  had  committed  the  unpardon- 
able outrage  on  my  sensibilities  of  calling  me  a 
Spy  ;  she  was  a  stumbling-block  in  my  way  and 
in  Percival's — but,  for  all  that,  my  magnanim- 
ity forbade  me  to  put  her  in  danger  of  infection 
with  my  own  hand.  At  the  same  time,  I  of- 
fered no  hinderance  to  her  putting  herself  in 
danger.  If  she  had  succeeded  in  doing  so,  the 
intricate  knot  which  I  was  slowly  and  patiently 
operating  on  might  perhaps  have  been  cut  by 
circumstances.  As  it  was,  the  doctor  interfered, 
and  she  was  kept  out  of  the  room. 

I  had  myself  previously  I'ecommended  sending 
for  advice  to  London.  This  course  had  been 
now  taken.  The  physician,  on  his  arrival,  con- 
firmed my  view  of  the  case.  The  crisis  was 
serious.  But  we  had  hope  of  our  charming  pa- 
tient on  the  fifth  day  from  the  appearance  of  the 
Typhus.  I  was  only  once  absent  from  Black- 
water  at  this  time — when  I  went  to  London  by 
the  morning  train,  to  make  the  final  arrange- 
ments at  my  house  in  St.  John's  Wood ;  to  as- 
sure myself,  by  private  inquiry,  that  Mrs.  Cle- 
ments had  not  moved  ;  and  to  settle  one  or  two 
little  preliminary  matters  with  the  husband  of 
Madame  Rubelle.  I  returned  at  night.  Five 
days  afterward  the  physician  pronounced  our 
interesting  Marian  to  be  out  of  all  danger,  and 
to  be  in  need  of  nothing  but  careful  nursing. 
This  was  the  time  I  had  waited  for.  Now  that 
medical  attendance  was  no  longer  indispensable, 
I  played  the  first  move  in  the  game  by  asserting 
myself  against  the  doctor.  He  was  one  among 
many  witnesses  in  my  way  whom  it  was  neces- 
sary to  remove.  A  lively  altercation  between  us 
(in  which  Percival,  previously  instructed  by  me, 
refused  to  interfere)  served  the  purpose  in  view. 
I  descended  on  the  miserable  man  in  an  irre- 
sistible avalanche  of  indignation,  and  swept  him 
from  the  house. 

The  servants  were  the  next  encumbrances  to 
get  rid  of.  Again  I  instructed  Percival  (whose 
moral  courage  required  perpetual  stimulants), 
and  Mrs.  Michelson  was  amazed,  one  day,  by 
hearing  from  her  master  that  the  establishment 
was  to  be  broken  up.  We  cleared  the  house  of 
all  the  servants  but  one,  who  was  kept  for  do- 
mestic purposes,  and  whose  lumpish  stujiidity 
we  could  trust  to  make  no  embarrassing  discov- 
eries. When  they  were  gone,  nothing  remain- 
ed but  to  relieve  ourselves  of  Mrs.  Michelson — 
a  result  which  was  easily  achieved  by  sending 
this  amiable  lady  to  find  lodgings  for  her  mis- 
tress at  the  sea-side. 

The  circumstances  were  now — cxactlv  what 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


253 


they  were  required  to  be.  Lady  Clyde  was  con- 
fined to  her  room  by  nervous  ilhiess ;  and  the 
lumpish  housemaid  (I  forget  her  name)  was  shut 
lip  there,  at  night,  in  attendance  on  her  mis- 
tress. Marian,  though  fast  recovering,  still  kept 
her  bed,  with  Mrs.  Kubelle  for  nurse.  No  oth- 
er living  creatures  but  my  wife,  myself,  and  Per- 
cival  were  in  the  house.  With  all  the  chances 
thus  in  our  favor,  I  confronted  the  next  emer- 
gency, and  played  the  second  move  in  the  game. 
Tlie  object  of  the  second  move  was  to  induce 
Lady  Glyde  to  leave  Blackwater,  unaccompanied 
by  her  sister.  Unless  we  could  persuade  her 
that  Marian  had  gone  on  to  Cumberland  first, 
there  was  no  chance  of  removing  her,  of  her 
own  free-will,  from  the  house.  To  produce  this 
necessary  operation  in  her  mind  we  concealed 
our  interesting  invalid  in  one  of  the  uninhabited 
bedrooms  at  Blackwater.  At  the  dead  of  night 
Madame  Fosco,  Madame  Rubelle,  and  myself 
(Percival  not  being  cool  enough  to  be  trusted), 
accomplished  the  concealment.  The  scene  was 
picturesque,  mysterious,  dramatic,  in  the  high- 
est degree.  By  my  directions  the  bed  had  been 
made,"  in  the  morning,  on  a  strong,  movable 
frame-work  of  wood.  We  had  only  to  lift  the 
frame-work  gently  at  the  head  and  foot,  and  to 
transport  our  patient  where  we  pleased,  without 
disturbing  herself  or  her  bed.  No  chemical  as- 
sistance was  needed,  or  used,  in  this  case.  Our 
interesting  Marian  lay  in  the  deep  repose  of 
convalescence.  We  placed  the  candles  and 
opened  the  doors  beforehand.  I,  in  right  of 
my  great  personal  strength,  took  the  head  of 
the  frame-work ;  my  wife  and  Madame  Eubelle 
took  the  foot.  I  bore  my  share  of  that  inesti- 
mably precious  burden  with  a  manly  tenderness, 
with  a  fatherly  care.  Where  is  the  modern 
Rembrandt  who  could  depict  our  midnight  pro- 
cession ?  Alas  for  the  Arts  !  alas  for  this  most 
pictorial  of  subjects !  the  modern  Rembrandt  is 
nowhere  to  be  found. 

The  next  morning  my  wife  and  I  started  for 
London,  leaving  Marian  secluded,  in  the  unin- 
liabited  middle  of  the  house,  under  care  of  Ma- 
dame Rubelle,  who  kindly  consented  to  imprison 
herself  with  her  patient  for  two  or  three  days. 
Before  taking  our  departure  I  gave  Percival 
Mr.  Fairlie's  letter  of  invitation  to  his  niece 
(instructing  her  to  sleep,  on  the  journey  to  Cum- 
berland, at  her  aunt's  house),  with  directions  to 
show  it  to  Lady  Glyde  on  hearing  from  me.  I 
also  obtained  from  him  the  address  of  the  Asy- 
lum in  which  Anne  Catherick  had  been  con- 
iined,  and  a  letter  to  the  proprietor,  announcing 
to  that  gentleman  the  return  of  his  runaway  pa- 
tient to  medical  care. 

I  had  arranged,  at  my  last  visit  to  the  metrop- 
olis, to  have  our  modest  domestic  establishment 
ready  to  receive  us  when  we  arrived  in  London 
by  the  early  train .  In  consequence  of  this  wise 
precaution  we  were  enabled,  that  same  day,  to 
play  the  third  move  in  the  game — the  getting 
possession  of  Anne  Catherick. 

Dates  are  of  importance  here.  I  combine  in 
myself  the  opposite  characteristics  of  a  Man  of 
Sentiment  and  a  Man  of  Business.  I  have  all 
the  dates  at  my  fingers'  ends. 

On  the  27th  of  July,  1850,  I  sent  my  wife,  in 
a  cab,  to  clear  Mrs.  Clements  out  of  the  way, 
in  the  first  place.  A  supposed  message  from 
Lady  Glyde  in  London  was  sufficient  to  obtain 


this  result.  Mrs.  Clements  was  taken  away  in 
the  cab,  and  was  left  in  the  cab,  while  my  wife 
(on  pretense  of  purchasing  something  at  a 
shop)  gave  her  the  slip,  and  returned  to  receive 
her  expected  visitor  at  our  house  in  St.  John's 
Wood.  It  is  hardly  necessary  to  add  that  the 
visitor  had  been  described  to  the  servants  as 
"Lady  Glyde." 

In  the  mean  while  I  had  followed  in  another 
cab,  with  a  note  for  Anne  Catherick,  merely 
mentioning  that  Lady  Glyde  intended  to  keep 
Mrs.  Clements  to  spend  the  daj^  with  her,  and 
that  she  was  to  join  them,  under  care  of  the  good 
gentleman  waiting  outside,  who  had  already 
saved  her  from  discovery  in  Hampshire  by  Sir 
Percival.  The  "good  gentleman"  sent  in  this 
note  by  a  street  boy,  and  paused  for  results  a 
door  or  two  farther  on.  At  the  moment  when 
Anne  appeared  at  the  house  door  and  closed  it, 
this  excellent  man  had  the  cab  door  open  ready 
for  her,  absorbed  her  into  the  vehicle,  and  drove 
off. 

(Pass  me  here  one  exclamation  in  parenthe- 
sis.    How  interesting  this  is!) 

On  the  way  to  Forest  Road  my  companion 
showed  no  fear.  I  can  be  paternal — no  man 
more  so — when  I  please;  and  I  was  intensely 
paternal  on  this  occasion.  What  titles  I  bad 
to  her  confidence  !  I  had  compounded  the  med- 
icine which  had  done  her  good ;  I  had  warned 
her  of  her  danger  from  Sir  Percival.  Perhaps 
I  trusted  too  implicitly  to  these  titles;  pei-haps 
I  underrated  the  keenness  of  the  lower  instincts 
in  persons  of  weak  intellect — it  is  certain  that 
I  neglected  to  prepare  her  sufficiently  for  a  dis- 
appointment on  entering  my  house.  When  I 
took  her  into  the  drawing-room — when  she  saw 
no  one  present  but  Madame  Fosco,  who  was  a 
stranger  to  her — she  exhibited  the  most  violent 
agitation :  if  she  had  scented  danger  in  the  air, 
as  a  dog  scents  the  presence  of  some  creature 
unseen,  her  alarm  could  not  have  displayed  it- 
self more  suddenly  and  more  causelessl}'.  I  in- 
terposed in  vain.  The  fear  from  which  she  was 
suffering  I  might  have  soothed  ;  but  the  serious 
heart  disease  under  which  she  labored  was  be- 
yond the  reach  of  all  moral  palliatives.  To  my 
unspeakable  horror,  she  was  seized  with  convul- 
sions— a  shock  to  the  system,  in  her  condition, 
which  might  have  laid  her  dead  at  any  moment 
at  our  feet. 

The  nearest  doctor  was  sent  for,  and  was  told 
that "  Lady  Glyde"  required  his  immediate  serv- 
ices.    To  my  infinite  relief,  he  was  a  capable 
man.     I  represented  my  visitor  to  him  as  a  per- 
son of  weak  intellect,  and  subject  to  delusions ; 
[  and  I  arranged  that  no  nurse  but  my  wife  should 
watch  in  the  sick-room.     The  unhappy  woman 
was  too  ill,  however,  to  cause  any  anxiety  about 
what  she  might  say.     The  one  dread  which  now 
oppressed  me  was  the  dread  that  the  false  Lady 
Glyde  might  die  before  the  true  Lady  Glyde  ar- 
rived in  London.     I  had  written  a  note  in  the 
i  morning  to  Madame  Rubelle,  telling  her  to  join 
!  me  at  her  husband's  house  on  the  evening  of  the 
29th ;  with  another  note  to  Percival,  warning 
;  him  to  show  his  wife  her  uncle's  letter  of  invita- 
tion, to  assert  that  Marian  had  gone  on  before 
her,  and  to  dispatch  her  to  town  by  the  mid-day 
train  on  the  29th  also.     On  reflection,  I  had 
:  felt  the  necessity,  in  Anne  Catherick's  state  of 
health,  of  precipitating  events,  and  of  having 


2o4 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


Lady  Glyde  at  my  disposal  earlier  than  I  had 
originally  contemplated.  What  fresh  directions, 
in  the  terrible  uncertainty  of  my  position,  could 
I  now  issue?  I  could  do  nothing  but  trust  to 
chance  and  the  doctor.  My  emotions  expressed 
themselves  in  patlietic  apostrophes  —  which  I 
was  just  self-possessed  enough  to  couple,  in  the 
hearing  of  other  people,  with  the  name  of  "  Lady 
Glyde."  In  all  other  rcsj)ects,  Fosco,  on  that 
memorable  day,  was  Fosco  shrouded  in  total 
eclipse. 

She  passed  a  bad  night — she  awoke  worn  out 
— but,  later  in  the  day,  she  revived  amazingly. 
My  elastic  spirits  revived  with  her.  I  could  re- 
ceive no  answers  from  Percival  and  Madame 
Rubelle  till  the  morning  of  the  next  day,  the 
29th.  In  anticipation  of  their  following  my 
directions,  which,  accident  apart,  I  knew  they 
would  do,  I  went  to  secure  a  fly  to  fetch  Lady 
Glyde  from  the  railway ;  directing  it  to  be  at 
my  house  on  the  29t]i,  at  two  o'clock.  After 
seeing  the  order  entered  in  the  book,  I  went  on 
to  arrange  matters  with  Monsieur  Rubelle.  I 
also  procured  the  services  of  two  gentlemen,  who 
could  furnish  me  witli  the  necessary  certificates 
of  lunacy.  One  of  them  I  knew  personally  ;  the 
otlier  was  known  to  Monsieur  Rubelle.  Both 
were  men  whose  vigorous  minds  soared  superior 
to  narrow  scru]iles — both  were  laboring  under 
temporary  embarrassments  —  both  believed  in 

ME. 

It  was  past  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  be- 
fore I  returned  from  the  performance  of  these 
duties.  When  I  got  back  Anne  Catherick  was 
dead.  Dead  on  the  2Sth ;  and  Lady  Glyde  was 
not  to  arrive  in  London  till  the  29th ! 

I  was  stunned.  Meditate  on  that.  Fosco 
stunned ! 

It  was  too  late  to  retrace  our  steps.  Before 
my  return  the  doctor  had  officiously  undertaken 
to  save  me  all  trouble  by  registering  the  death, 
on  the  date  when  it  happened,  with  his  own 
hand.  My  grand  scheme,  unassailable  hither- 
to, had  its  weak  place  now — no  eftbrts  on  my 
part  could  alter  the  fatal  event  of  the  28th.  I 
turned  manfully  to  the  future.  Percival's  inter- 
ests and  mine  being  still  at  stake,  nothing  was 
left  but  to  play  the  game  through  to  the  end.  I 
recalled  my  impenetrable  calm — and  played  it. 

On  the  morning  of  the  29th  Percival's  letter 
reached  me,  announcing  his  wife's  arrival  by  the 
mid-day  train.  Madame  Rubelle  also  wrote  to 
say  she  would  follow  in  the  evening.  I  started 
in  the  fly,  leaving  the  false  Lady  Glyde  dead  in 
the  house,  to  receive  the  true  Lady  Glyde,  on 
her  ari;ival  by  the  railway,  at  three  o'clock. 
Hidden  under  the  seat  of  the  carriage,  I  carried 
with  me  all  tlie  clothes  Anne  Catherick  had  worn 
on  coming  into  my  house — they  were  destined 
to  assist  the  resurrection  of  the  woman  who  was 
dead,  in  the  person  of  the  Avoman  who  was  liv- 
ing. What  a  situation !  I  suggest  it  to  the 
rising  romance  writers  of  England.  I  offer  it, 
as  totally  new,  to  the  worn-out  dramatists  of 
France. 

Lady  Glyde  was  at  the  station.  There  was  | 
great  crowding  and  confusion,  and  more  delay 
than  I  liked  (in  case  any  of  her  friends  had  hap- 
pened to  be  at  the  station)  in  reclaiming  her 
luggage.  Ilcr  first  (piestions,  as  we  drove  off",  ' 
implored  me  to  tell  her  news  of  her  sister.  I 
invented  news  of  the  most  pacifying  kind ;  as- 


suring her  that  she  was  about  to  see  her  sister 
at  my  house.  My  house,  on  this  occasion  only, 
was  in  the  neighborhood  of  Leicester  Square, 
and  was  in  the  occupation  of  Monsieur  Rubelle, 
who  received  us  in  the  hall. 

I  took  my  visitor  up  stairs  into  a  back  room ; 
the  two  medical  gentlemen  being  there  in  wait- 
ing on  the  floor  beneath,  to  see  the  patient,  and 
to  give  me  their  certificates.  After  quieting 
Lady  Glyde  by  the  necessary  assurances  about 
her  sister,  I  introduced  rny  friends,  separately, 
to  her  presence.  They  performed  the  formal- 
ities of  the  occasion  briefiy,  intelligently,  con- 
scientiously. I  entered  the  room  again  as  soon 
as  they  had  left  it;  and  at  once  precipitated 
events  by  a  reference,  of  the  alarming  kind,  to 
"Miss  Halcombe's"  state  of  health. 

Results  followed  as  I  had  anticipated.  Lady 
Glyde  became  frightened,  and  turned  faint.  For 
the  second  time,  and  the  last,  I  called  Science 
to  my  assistance.  A  medicated  glass  of  water, 
and  a  medicated  bottle  of  smelling-salts,  relieved 
her  of  all  further  embarrassment  and  alarm. 
Additional  applications,  later  in  the  evening, 
procured  her  ihe  inestimable  blessing  of  a  good 
night's  rest.  Madame  Rubelle  arrived  in  time 
to  preside  at  Lady  Glyde's  toilet.  Her  own 
clothes  were  taken  away  from  her  at  night,  and 
Anne  Catherick's  were  put  on  her  in  the  morn- 
ing, with  the  strictest  regard  to  propriety,  by  the 
matronly  hands  of  the  good  Rubelle.  Through- 
out the  day  I  kept  our  patient  in  a  state  of  par- 
tially-suspended consciousness,  until  the  dex- 
terous assistance  of  my  medical  friends  enabled 
me  to  procure  the  necessary  order  rather  earlier 
than  I  had  ventured  to  hope.  That  evening 
(the  evening  of  the  30th)  Madame  Rubelle  and 
I  took  our  revived  "Anne  Catherick"  to  the 
Asylum.  She  was  received  with  great  surprise, 
bat  without  suspicion — thanks  to  the  order  and 
certificates,  to  Percival's  letter,  to  the  likeness, 
to  the  clotlies,  and  to  the  patient's  own  confused 
mental  condition  at  the  time.  I  returned  at 
once  to  assist  Madame  Fosco  in  the  prepara- 
tions for  the  burial  of  the  false  "Lady  Glyde," 
having  the  clothes  of  the  true  "Lady  Glyde"  in 
my  possession.  They  were  afterward  sent  to 
Cumberland  by  the  conveyance  which  was  used 
for  the  funeral.  I  attended  the  funeral  with  be- 
coming dignity,  attired  in  the  deepest  mourning. 

My  narrative  of  these  remarkable  events, 
written  under  equally  remarkable  circumstances, 
closes  here.  The  minor  precautions  which  I 
observed,  in  communicating  with  Limmeridge 
House,  are  already  known — so  is  the  magnifi- 
cent success  of  my  enterprise — so  are  the  solid 
pecuniary  results  which  followed  it.  I  have  to 
assert,  with  the  whole  force  of  my  conviction, 
that  the  one  weak  place  in  my  scheme  would 
never  have  been  found  out  if  the  one  weak  place 
in  my  heart  had  not  been  discovered  first.  No- 
thing but  my  fatal  admiration  for  Marian  re- 
strained me  from  stepi)ing  in  to  my  own  rescue 
when  she  cft'ectcd  her  sister's  escajjc.  I  ran  the 
risk,  and  trusted  in  the  complete  destruction  of 
Lady  Glyde's  identity.  If  either  Marian  or  Mr. 
Hartright  attempted  to  assert  that  identity,  they 
would  jniblicly  expose  tliemsclves  to  the  imputa- 
tion of  sustaining  a  rank  deception  ;  they  would 
be  distrusted  and  discredited  accordingly ;  and 
they  Avould,  therefore,  be  powerless  to  place  my 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


255 


interests  or  Percival's  secret  in  jeopardy.  I 
committed  one  error  in  trusting  myself  to  such 
a  blindfold  calculation  of  chances  as  this.  I 
committed  another  when  Percival  had  paid  the 
penalty  of  his  own  obstinacy  and  violence,  by 
granting  Lady  Glyde  a  second  rcjirieve  from  the 
mad-house,  and  allowing  Mr.  Ilartright  a  sec- 
ond chance  of  escaping  me.  In  brief,  Fosco,  at 
this  serious  crisis,  was  untrue  to  himself.  De- 
plorable and  uncharacteristic  fault !  Behold  the 
cause  in  my  Heart — behold,  in  the  image  of 
Marian  Halcombe,  the  first  and  last  weakness 
of  Fosco's  life ! 

At  the  ripe  age  of  sixty,  I  make  this  unparal- 
leled confession.  Youths !  I  invoke  your  sym- 
pathy.    Maidens !  I  claim  your  tears. 

A  word  more — and  the  attention  of  the  reader 
(concentrated  breathlessly  on  myself)  shall  be 
released. 

My  own  mental  insight  informs  me  that  tliree 
inevitable  questions  will  be  asked  here  by  per- 
sons of  inquiring  minds.  They  shall  be  stated ; 
they  shall  be  answered. 

First  question.  What  is  the  secret  of  Madame 
Fosco's  unhesitating  devotion  of  herself  to  the 
fulfillment  of  my  boldest  wishes,  to  the  further- 
ance of  my  deepest  plans?  I  might  answer 
this  by  simply  referring  to  my  own  character, 
and  by  asking  in  my  turn: — Where,  in  the  his- 
tory of  the  world,  has  a  man  of  my  order  ever 
been  found  without  a  woman  in  the  back-ground, 
self-immolated  on  the  altar  of  his  life?  But  I 
remember  that  I  am  writing  in  England ;  I  re- 
member that  I  was  married  in  England — and  I 
ask,  if  a  woman's  marriage-obligations,  in  this 
country,  provide  for  her  private  opinion  of  her 
husband's  principles?  No!  They  charge  her 
nnreservedly  to  love,  honor,  and  obey  him. 
That  is  exactly  what  my  wife  has  done.  I 
stand  here  on  a  supreme  moral  elevation ;  and 
I  loftily  assert  her  accurate  performance  of  her 
conjugal  duties.  Silence,  Calumny !  Your 
sympathy,  Wives  of  England,  for  Madame  Fos- 
co! 

Second  question.  If  Anne  Catherick  had 
not  died  when  she  did,  what  should  I  have 
done?  I  should,  in  that  case,  have  assisted 
worn-out  Nature  in  finding  permanent  repose. 
I  should  have  opened  the  doors  of  the  Prison 
of  Life,  and  have  extended  to  the  captive  (in- 
curably afflicted  in  mind  and  body  both)  a 
happy  release. 

Third  question.  On  a  calm  revision  of  all 
the  circumstances — Is  my  conduct  worthy  of 
any  serious  tlame?  Most  emphaticall}'.  No! 
Have  I  not  carefully  avoided  exposing  myself 
to  the  odium  of  committing  unnecessary  crime  ? 
With  my  vast  resources  in  chemistry,  I  might 
have  taken  Lady  Glyde's  life.  At  immense 
personal  sacrifice  I  followed  the  dictates  of  my 
own  ingenuity,  my  own  humanity,  my  own  cau- 
tion— and  took  her  identity  instead.  Judge  me 
by  what  I  might  have  done.  How  compara- 
tively innocent !  how  indirectly  virtuous  I  ap- 
pear in  what  I  really  did ! 

I  announced,  on  beginning  it,  that  this  nar- 
rative would  be  a  remarkable  document.  It  has 
entirely  answered  my  expectations.  Eeceive 
these  fervid  lines — my  last  legacy  to  the  country 
I  leave  forever.  They  are  worthy  of  the  occa- 
sion, and  worthy  of  Fosco. 


WALTER  HARTEIGHT'S  NARRATIVE 

CONCLUDED. 

I. 

When  I  closed  the  last  leaf  of  the  Count's 
manuscript,  the  half  hour  during  which  I  had 
engaged  to  remain  at  Forest  Road  had  expired. 
Monsieur  Eubelle  looked  at  his  watch  and 
bowed.  I  rose  immediately,  and  left  the  agent 
in  possession  of  the  empty  house.  I  never  saw 
him  again  ;  I  never  heard  more  of  him  or  of  his 
wife.  Out  of  the  dark  by-ways  of  villainy  and 
deceit  they  had  crawled  across  our  path — into 
the  same  by-ways  they  crawled  back  secretly, 
and  were  lost. 

In  a  quarter  of  an  hour  after  leaving  Forest 
Road  I  was  at  home  again. 

But  few  words  sufhced  to  tell  Laura  and 
Marian  how  my  desperate  venture  had  ended, 
and  what  the  next  event  in  our  lives  was  likely 
to  be.  I  left  all  details  to  be  described  later  in 
the  day,  and  hastened  back  to  St.  John's  Wood 
to  see  the  person  of  whom  Count  Fosco  had 
ordered  the  fly,  when  he  went  to  meet  Laura 
at  the  station. 

The  address  in  my  possession  led  me  to  some 
"livery  stables,"  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  dis- 
tant from  Forest  Road.  The  proprietor  proved 
to  be  a  civil  and  respectable  man.  When  I  ex- 
plained that  an  important  family  matter  obliged 
me  to  ask  him  to  refer  to  his  books,  for  the  pur- 
pose of  ascertaining  a  date  with  which  the  rec- 
ord of  his  business  transactions  might  supply 
me,  he  offered  no  objection  to  granting  my  re- 
quest. The  book  was  produced ;  and  there, 
under  the  date  of  "July  29,  1850,"  the  order 
was  entered  in  these  words  : 

"Brougham  to  Count  Fosco,  5  Forest  Road. 
Two  o'clock.     (John  Owen.)" 

I  found,  on  inquiry,  that  the  name  of  "John 
Owen,"  attached  to  the  entry,  referred  to  the 
man  who  had  been  employed  to  drive  the  fly. 
He  was  then  at  work  in  the  stable-yard,  and 
was  sent  for  to  see  me,  at  my  request. 

"Do  you  remember  driving  a  gentleman,  in 
the  month  of  July  last,  from  Number  Five  For- 
est Road  to  the  Waterloo  Bridge  Station?"  I 
asked. 

<^"  Well,  Sir,"  said  the  man,  "I  can't  exactly 
say  I  do." 

"  Perhaps  you  remember  the  gentleman  him- 
self? Can  you  call  to  mind  driving  a  foreign- 
er, last  summer — a  tall  gentleman,  and  remark- 
ably fat  ?" 

The  man's  face  brightened  directly.  "I  re- 
member him,  Sir!  The  fattest  gentleman  as 
ever  I  see — and  the  heaviest  customer  as  ever 
I  drove.  Yes,  yes — I  call  him  to  mind.  Sir.  We 
did  go  to  the  station,  and  it  ivas  from  Forest 
Road.  There  was  a  parrot,  or  summut  like  it, 
screeching  in  the  window.  The  gentleman  was 
in  a  mortal  hurry  about  the  lady's  luggage;  and 
he  give  me  a  handsome  present  for  looking  sharp 
and  getting  the  boxes." 

Getting  the  boxes !  I  recollected  imme- 
diately that  Laura's  own  account  of  herself,  on 
her  arrival  in  London,  described  her  luggage  as 
being  collected  for  her  by  some  person  whom 
Count  Fosco  brought  with  him  to  the  station. 
This  was  the  man. 

"Did  you  see  the  lady?"  I  asked.  "What 
did  she  look  like  ?     Was  she  young  or  old?" 


256 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHltE. 


"Well,  Sir,  what  Mith  the  Ininy  and  the 
crowd  of  people  pushing  about,  I  can't  rightly 
say  what  the  lady  looked  like.  I  can't  call  no- 
thing to  mind  about  her  that  I  know  of — ex- 
cepting her  name." 

"You  remember  her  name?" 

"Yes,  Sir.     Her  name  was  Lady  Glyde." 

"  How  do  you  come  to  remember  that,  when 
you  have  forgotten  what  she  looked  like  ?" 

The  man  smiled,  and  shifted  his  feet  in  some 
little  embarrassment. 

"Why,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  Sir,"  he  said, 
"  I  hadn't  been  long  married  at  that  time ;  and 
my  wife's  name,  before  she  changed  it  for  mine, 
was  the  same  as  the  lady's — meaning  the  name 
of  Glyde,  Sir.  The  lady  mentioned  it  herself. 
'Is  your  name  on  your  boxes,  ma'am?'  says  I. 
'Yes,'  says  she,  'ray  name  is  on  my  luggage — 
it  is  Lady  Glyde.'  '  Come !'  I  says  to  myself, 
'  I've  a  bad  head  for  gentlefolks'  names  in  gen- 
eral— but  this  one  comes  like  an  old  friend,  at 
any  rate.'  I  can't  say  nothing  about  the  time. 
Sir :  it  might  be  nigh  on  a  year  ago,  or  it 
mightn't.  But  I  can  swear  to  the  stout  gen- 
tleman, and  swear  to  the  lady's  name." 

There  was  no  need  that  he  should  remember 
the  time;  the  date  was  positively  established  by 
his  master's  order-book.  I  felt  at  once  that  the 
means  were  at  last  in  my  power  of  striking  down 
the  whole  conspiracy  at  a  blow  with  the  irre- 
sistible weapon  of  plain  fact.  Witliout  a  mo- 
ment's hesitation  I  took  the  proprietor  of  the 
livery-stables  aside,  and  told  him  what  the  real 
importance  was  of  the  evidence  of  his  order- 
book  and  the  evidence  of  his  driver.  An  ar- 
rangement to  compensate  him  for  the  temporary 
loss  of  the  man's  services  was  easily  made ;  and 
a  copy  of  the  entry  in  the  book  was  taken  by  my- 
self, and  certified  as  true  by  the  master's  own 
signature.  I  left  the  livery-stables,  having  set- 
tled that  John  Owen  was  to  hold  himself  at  my 
disposal  for  the  next  three  days,  or  for  a  longer 
period,  if  necessity  required  it. 

I  now  had  in  my  possession  all  the  papers 
that  I  wanted ;  the  district  registrar's  own  copy 
of  the  certificate  of  death,  and  ¥^  .Percival's 
dated  letter  to  the  Count,  beinj.^  kfe  in  my 
pocket-book.  With  this  written  evkicnce  about 
me,  and  with  the  coaolunan's  answers  fresh  in 
my  memory,  I  next  tuiared  my  steps,  for  the 
first  time  since  the  beginning  of  all  my  inqui- 
ries, in  the  direction  of  Mr.  Kyrle's  office.  One 
of  my  objects  in  paying  him  this  second  visit 
was,  necessarily,  to  tell  him  what  I  had  done. 
Tlie  other  was  to  warn  him  of  my  resolution  to 
take  my  wife  to  Limmeridge  the  next  morn- 
ing, and  to  have  her  publicly  received  and  rec- 
ognized in  her  uncle's  house.  I  left  it  to  Mr. 
Kyrle  to  decide,  under  these  circumstances,  and 
in  Mr.  Gihnore's  absence,  whether  he  was  or 
was  not  bound,  as  the  family  solicitor,  to  be 
present  on  that  occasion  in  the  family  interests. 

I  will  say  nothing  of  Mr.  Kyrle's  amazement, 
or  of  the  terms  in  which  he  expressed  his  opin- 
ion of  my  conduct,  from  the  first  stage  of  the 
investigation  to  the  last.  It  is  only  necessary 
to  mention  that  he  at  once  decided  on  accom- 
panying us  to  Cumberland. 

We  started  the  next  morning  by  the  early 
train.  Laura,  JNIarian,  Mr.  Kyrle,  and  myself 
in  one  carriage;  and  John  Owen,  with  a  clerk 
from  Mr.  Kyrle's  oflicc,  occupying  places  in  an- 


other. On  reaching  the  Limmeridge  station  we 
went  first  to  the  farm-house  at  Todd's  Corner. 
It  was  my  firm  determination  that  Laura  should 
not  enter  her  imcle's  house  till  she  appeared 
there  publicly  recognized  as  his  niece.  I  left 
Marian  to  settle  the  question  of  accommodation 
with  Mrs.  Todd,  as  soon  as  the  good  woman 
had  recovered  from  the  bewilderment  of  hear- 
ing what  our  errand  was  in  Cumberland ;  and 
I  arranged  with  her  husband  that  John  Owen 
was  to  be  committed  to  the  ready  hospitality  of 
the  farm  servants.  These  preliminaries  com- 
pleted, Mr.  Kyrle  and  I  set  forth  together  for 
Limmeridge  House. 

I  can  not  write  at  any  length  of  our  interview 
with  Mr.  Fairlie,  for  I  can  not  recall  it  to  mind 
without  feelings  of  impatience  and  contempt, 
Avhich  make  the  scene,  even  in  remembrance 
only,  utterly  repulsive  to  me.  I  prefer  to  re- 
cord simply  that  I  carried  my  point.  Mr.  Fair- 
lie  attempted  to  treat  us  on  his  customary  plan. 
We  passed  without  notice  his  polite  insolence 
at  the  outset  of  the  interview.  We  heard  with- 
out sympathy  the  protestations  with  M'hich  he 
tried  next  to  persuade  us  that  the  disclosure  of 
the  conspiracy  had  overwhelmed  him.  He  ab- 
solutely whined  and  whimpered,  at  last,  like  a 
fretful  child.  "How  was  he  to  know  that  his 
niece  was  alive,  when  he  was  told  that  she  was 
dead?  He  would  welcome  dear  Laura  with 
pleasure,  if  we  would  only  allow  him  time  to 
recover.  Did  we  think  he  looked  as  if  he 
wanted  hurrying  into  his  grave  ?  No.  Then 
why  hurry  him  ?"  He  reiterated  these  remon- 
strances at  every  available  opportunity,  until  I 
checked  them  once  for  all,  by  placing  him  firm- 
ly between  two  inevitable  alternatives.  I  gave 
him  his  choice  between  doing  his  niece  justice 
on  ray  terms,  or  facing  the  consequences  of  a 
public  assertion  of  her  identity  in  a  court  of 
law.  Mr.  Kyrle,  to  whom  he  turned  for  help, 
told  him  plainly  that  he  must  decide  the  ques- 
tion then  and  there.  Characteristically  choos- 
ing the  alternative  which  promised  soonest  to 
release  him  from  all  personal  anxiety,  he  an- 
nounced, with  a  sudden  outburst  of  energy,  tha': 
he  Avas  not  strong  enough  to  bear  any  more  bul- 
Ij'ing,  and  that  we  might  do  as  we  pleased. 

Mr.  Kyrle  and  I  at  once  went  down  stairs, 
and  agreed  upon  a  form  of  letter  which  was  to 
be  sent  round  to  the  tenants  M'ho  had  attended 
the  false  funeral,  summoning  them,  in  Mr.  Fair- 
lie's  name,  to  assemble  in  Limmeridge  House 
on  tlie  next  day  but  one.  An  order,  referring 
to  the  same  date,  was  also  written,  directing  a 
statuary  in  Carlisle  to  send  a  man  to  Limmer- 
idge church-yard,  for  the  pui-pose  of  erasing  an 
inscription — Mr.  Kyrle,  who  had  arranged  to 
sleep  in  the  house,  imdertaking  that  Mr.  Fair- 
lie  should  hear  these  letters  read  to  him,  and 
should  sign  them  with  his  own  hand. 

I  occupied  the  interval-day  at  the  farm  in 
WTiting  a  plain  narrative  of  the  conspiracy,  and 
in  adding  to  it  a  st.atemcnt  of  the  practical  con- 
tradiction which  facts  offered  to  the  assertion 
of  Laura's  death.  This  I  submitted  to  Mr. 
Kyrle  before  I  read  it,  the  next  day,  to  the  as- 
se'raliled  tenants.  We  also  arranged  the  form 
in  which  the  evidence  should  be  presented  at 
the  close  of  the  reading.  After  these  matters 
were  settled,  IMr.  Kyrle  endeavored  to  turn  the 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


conversation  next  to  Laura's  affairs.  Knowing, 
and  desiring  to  know,  nothing  of  those  affairs, 
and  doubting  whether  he  would  approve,  as  a 
man  of  business,  of  my  conduct  in  relation  to 
my  wife's  life-interest  in  the  legacy  left  to  Ma- 
dame Fosco,  I  begged  Mr.  Kyrle  to  excuse  me 
if  I  abstained  from  discussing  the  sul)ject.  It 
was  connected,  as  I  could  truly  tell  him,  with 
those  sorrows  and  troubles  of  the  past  which  we 
never  referred  to  among  ourselves,  and  which 
we  instinctively  shrank  from  discussing  with 
others. 

My  last  labor,  as  the  evening  approached, 
was  to  obtain  "The  Narrative  of  the  Tomb- 
stone," by  taking  a  copy  of  the  false  inscription 
on  the  grave  before  it  was  erased. 

The  day  came — the  day  when  Laura  once 
more  entered  the  familiar  breakfast-room  at 
Limmeridge  House.  All  the  persons  assembled 
rose  from  their  seats  as  Marian  and  I  led  her 
in.  A  perceptible  shock  of  surprise,  an  audible 
murmur  of  interest,  ran  through  tliem  at  the 
sight  of  her  face.  Mr.  Fairlie  was  present  (by 
my  express  stipulation),  with  Mr.  Kyrle  by  his 
side.  His  valet  stood  behind  him  with  a  smell- 
ing-bottle ready  in  one  hand,  and  a  white  hand- 
kerchief, saturated  with  eau  de  Cologne,  in  the 
other. 

I  opened  the  proceedings  by  publicly  appeal- 
ing to  Mr.  Fairlie  to  say  whether  I  appeared 
there  with  his  authority  and  under  his  express 
sanction.  He  extended  an  arm  on  either  side 
to  Mr.  Kyrle  and  to  his  valet ;  was  by  them  as- 
sisted to  stand  on  his  legs;  and  then  expressed 
himself  in  these  terms:  "Allow  me  to  present 
Mr.  Hartright.  I  am  as  great  an  invalid  as 
ever,  and  he  is  so  very  obliging  as  to  speak  for 
rae.  Tlie  subject  is  dreadfully  embarrassing. 
Please  hear  him ;  and  don't  make  a  noise !" 
With  those  words,  he  slowly  sank  back  again 
into  the  chair,  and  took  refuge  in  his  scented 
pocket-handkerchief. 

My  disclosure  of  the  conspiracy  followed — 
after  I  had  offered  my  preliminary  explanation, 
first  of  all,  in  the  fewest  and  the  plainest  words. 
I  was  there  present  (I  informed  my  hearers)  to 
declare,  first,  that  my  wife,  then  sitting  by  me, 
was  the  daughter  of  the  late  Mr.  Philip  Fairlie ; 
secondly,  to  prove,  by  positive  facts,  that  the  fu- 
neral which  they  had  attended  in  Limmeridge 
church-yard  was  the  funeral  of  another  woman; 
thirdly,  to  give  them  a  ])lain  account  of  how  it 
had  all  happened.  Without  further  preface,  I 
at  once  read  the  narrative  of  the  conspiracy, 
describing  it  in  clear  outline,  and  dwelling  only 
upon  the  pecuniary  motive  for  it,  in  order  to 
avoid  complicating  my  statement  by  unnecessary 
reference  to  Sir  Percival's  secret.  This  done, 
I  reminded  my  audience  of  the  date  of  "  Lady 
Clyde's"  death,  recorded  on  the  inscription  in 
the  church-yard  (the  28th  of  July) ;  and  con- 
firmed its  correctness  by  producing  the  doctor's 
certificate.  I  then  read  them  Sir  Percival's  let- 
ter announcing  his  wife's  intended  journey  from 
Hampshire  to  London  on  the  29th,  and  dated 
from  Blackwater  on  the  28th  —  the  very  day 
when  the  certificate  asserted  her  decease  in  St. 
John's  Wood.  I  next  showed  that  she  had  act- 
ually taken  that  journey,  by  the  personal  testi- 
mony of  the  driver  of  the  fly  ;  and  I  proved  that 
she  had  performed  it  on  the  day  appointed  in 
R 


her  husband's  letter,  by  the  evidence  of  the  or- 
der-book at  the  livery-stables.  Marian,  at  my 
request,  next  added  her  own  statement  of  the 
meeting  between  Laura  and  herself  at  the  mad- 
house, and  of  her  sister's  escape.  After  which 
I  closed  the  proceedings  by  informing  the  per- 
sons present  of  Sir  Percival's  death,  and  of  my 
marriage. 

Mr.  Kyrle  rose,  when  I  resumed  my  seat,  and 
declared,  as  the  legal  adviser  of  the  family,  that 
my  case  was  proved  by  the  plainest  evidence  he 
had  ever  heard  in  his  life.  As  he  spoke  those 
words,  I  put  my  arm  round  Laura,  and  raised 
her  so  that  she  was  plainly  visible  to  every  one 
in  the  room.  "Are  you  all  of  the  same  opin- 
ion?" I  asked,  advancing  toward  them  a  few 
steps  and  pointing  to  my  wife. 

The  effect  of  the  question  was  electrical.  Far 
down  at  the  lower  end  of  the  room  one  of  the 
oldest  tenants  on  the  estate  started  to  his  feet, 
and  led  the  rest  with  him  in  an  instant.  I  see 
the  man  now,  with  his  honest  brown  face  and 
his  iron-gray  hair,  mounted  on  the  window-seat, 
waving  his  heavy  riding-whip  frantically  over  his 
head,  and  leading  the  cheers.  "There  she  is, 
nUve  and  hearty — God  bless  her !  Gi'  it  tongue, 
lads!  Gi' it  tongue  !"  The  shout  that  answered 
him,  reiterated  again  and  again,  was  the  sweet- 
est music  I  ever  heard.  The  laborers  in  the  vil- 
lage, and  the  boys  from  the  school  assembled 
on  the  lawn,  caught  up  the  cheering  and  ech- 
oed it  back  on  us.  The  farmers'  wives  clustered 
round  Laura,  and  struggled  which  should  be  first 
to  shake  hands  with  her,  and  to  implore  her, 
with  the  tears  pouring  over  their  own  cheeks,  to 
bear  up  bravely,  and  not  to  cry.  She  was  so 
completely  overwhelmed,  that  I  was  obliged  to 
take  her  from  them  and  carry  her  to  the  door. 
There  I  gave  her  into  Marian's  care — Marian, 
who  had  never  failed  us  yet,  whose  courageous 
self-control  did  not  fail  us  now.  Left  by  my- 
self at  the  door,  I  invited  all  the  persons  pres- 
ent (after  thanking  them  in  Laura's  name  and 
mine)  to  follow  me  to  the  church-yard,  and  see 
the  false  inscription  struck  off  the  tombstone 
with  their  .^«n  eyes. 

They,law  ^ft  the  house,  and  all  joined  the 
throng  oiiwlagers  collected  round  the  grave, 
where  the  statuary's  nvan.  was  waiting  for  us. 
In  a  breathless  silence:  the  first  sharp  stroke  of 
the  steel  sounded  on  the  marble.  Not  a  voice 
was  heard,  not  a  soul  moved  till  those  three 
words,  "  Laura,  Lady  Glyde,"  had  vanished 
from  sight.  Then  there  was  a  great  heave  of 
relief  among  the  crowd,  as  if  they  felt  that  the 
last  fetters  of  the  conspiracy  had  been  struck 
off  Laura  herself,  and  the  assembly  slowly  with- 
drew. It  was  late  in  the  day  before  the  whole 
inscription  was  erased.  One  line  only  was  aft- 
erward engraved  in  its  place :  "  Anne  Cather- 
ick,  July  28,  1850." 

I  returned  to  Limmeridge  House  early  enough 
in  the  evening  to  take  leave  of  Mr.  Kyrle.  He, 
and  his  clerk,  and  the  driver  of  the  fly,  went 
back  to  London  by  the  night  train.  On  their 
departure  an  insolent  message  was  delivered  to 
me  from  Mr.  Fairlie  —  who  had  been  carried 
from  the  room  in  a  shattered  condition,  when 
the  first  outbreak  of  cheering  answered  my  ap- 
peal to  the  tenantry.  The  message  conveyed 
to  us  "Mr.  Fairlie's'  best  congratulations,"  and 
requested  to  know  whether  "we  contemplated 


258 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


stoppinj:;  in  the  house."  I  sent  back  word  that 
the  only  object  for  which  we  had  entered  his 
doors  was  accomplished ;  that  I  contemjjlated 
stopping  in  no  man's  house  but  my  own ;  and 
that  Mr.  Fairlie  need  not  entertain  the  slightest 
apprehension  of  ever  seeing  us,  or  liearing  from 
us,  again.  We  went  back  to  our  friends  at  the 
farm  to  rest  that  night ;  and  the  next  morning 
— escorted  to  the  station,  with  the  heartiest  en- 
thusiasm and  good-will,  by  the  whole  village, 
and  by  all  the  farmers  in  the  neighborhood — we 
returned  to  London. 

As  our  view  of  the  Cumberland  hills  faded  in 
the  distance  I  thought  of  the  first  disheartening 
circumstances  under  which  the  long  struggle 
that  was  now  past  and  over  had  been  pursued. 
It  was  strange  to  look  back  and  to  see,  now, 
that  the  poverty  which  had  denied  us  all  hope 
of  assistance  had  been  the  indirect  means  of 
our  success,  by  forcing  me  to  act  for  myself. 
If  we  had  been  rich  enough  to  find  legal  help, 
wliat  would  have  been  the  result  ?  The  gain 
(on  Mr.  Kyrle's  own  showing)  would  liave  been 
more  than  doubtful ;  the  loss — ^judging  by  the 
plain  test  of  events  as  they  had  really  hap])ened 
— certain.  The  Law  would  never  have  obtain- 
ed me  my  interview  with  Mrs.  Catherick.  The 
Law  would  never  have  made  Pesca  the  means 
of  forcing  a  confession  from  the  Count. 

II. 

Two  more  events  remain  to  be  added  to  the 
chain  before  it  reaches  fairly  from  the  outset  of 
the  story  to  the  close. 

While  our  new  sense  of  freedom  from  the 
long  oppression  of  the  past  was  still  strange  to 
us,  I  was  sent  for  by  the  friend  who  had  given 
me  my  first  employment  in  wood  engraving  to 
receive  from  him  a  fresh  testimony  of  his  re- 
gard for  my  welfare.  He  had  been  commis- 
sioned by  his  employers  to  go  to  I'aris,  and  to 
examine  for  them  a  French  discovery  in  the 
practical  application  of  his  Art,  the  merits  of 
which  they  were  anxious  to  ascertain.  His 
own  engagements  had  not  allowed  him  leisure 
time  to  undertake  the  errand,  and  he  had 
most  kindly  suggested  that  it  should  be  trans- 
ferred to  me.  I  could  have  no  hesitation  in 
thankfully  accepting  the  ofter ;  for  if  I  acquitted 
myself  of  my  commission  as  I  hoped  I  should, 
the  result  would  be  a  permanent  engagement 
on  the  illustrated  newspaper  to  which  I  was 
now  only  occasionally  attached. 

I  received  my  instructions,  and  packed  up  for 
the  journey  the  next  day.  On  leaving  Laura 
once  more  (under  what  changed  circumstances !) 
in  her  sister's  care,  a  serious  consideration  re- 
curred to  me,  which  had  more  than  once  cross- 
ed my  wife's  mind,  as  well  as  my  own,  already 
— I  mean  the  consideration  of  Marian's  future. 
Had  we  any  right  to  let  our  selfish  affection  ac- 
cept the  devotion  of  all  that  generous  life  ?  Was 
it  not  our  duty,  our  best  expression  of  gratitude, 
to  forget  ourselves,  and  to  think  only  of  her  ?  I 
tried  to  say  this,  when  we  were  alone  for  a  mo- 
ment, before  I  went  away.  She  took  my  hand, 
and  silenced  me  at  the  first  words. 

"  After  all  that  we  three  have  sufltrcd  togeth- 
er," she  said,  "there  can  be  no  parting  between 
us  till  the  last  parting  of  all.  My  heart  and  my 
liap])iness,  Walter,  are  with  Laura  and  you. 
Wait  a  little,  till  there  are  children's  voices  at 


your  fireside.  I  will  teach  them  to  speak  for 
me  in  their  language;  and  the  first  lesson  they 
say  to  their  father  and  mother  shall  be,  'We 
can't  spare  our  aunt ! '" 

My  journey  to  Paris  was  not  undertaken 
alone.  At  the  eleventh  hour  Pesca  decided  that 
he  would  accompany  me.  He  had  not  recover- 
ed -his  customary  cheerfulness  since  the  night 
at  the  Opera,  and  lie  determined  to  try  what  a 
week's  holiday  would  do  to  raise  his  spirits. 

I  performed  the  errand  intrusted  to  me,  and 
drew  out  the  necessary  report,  on  the  fourth  day 
from  our  arrival  in  Paris.  The  fifth  day  I  ar- 
ranged to  devote  to  sight-seeing  and  amusement 
in  Pesca's  comjiany. 

Our  hotel  had  been  too  full  to  accommodate 
us  both  on  the  same  floor.  My  room  was  on 
the  second  story,  and  Pesca's  was  above  me,  on 
the  third.  On  the  morning  of  the  fifth  day  I 
went  up  stairs  to  see  if  the  Professor  was  ready 
to  go  out.  Just  before  I  reached  the  landing  I 
saw  his  door  opened  from  the  inside ;  a  long, 
delicate,  nervous  hand  (not  my  friend's  hand 
certainly)  held  it  ajar.  At  the  same  time  I 
heard  Pesca's  voice  saying  eagerly,  in  low  tones, 
and  in  his  own  language:  "I  remember  the 
name,  but  I  don't  know  the  man.  You  saw  at 
the  Opera,  he  was  so  changed  that  I  could  not 
recognize  him.  I  will  forward  the  report — I 
can  do  no  more."  "  No  more  need  be  done," 
answered  a  second  voice.  The  door  opened 
wide,  and  the  light-haired  man  with  the  scar 
on  his  cheek — the  man  I  had  seen  following 
Count  Fosco's  cab  a  week  before — came  out. 
He  bowed  as  I  drew  aside  to  let  him  ])ass ;  his 
face  was  fearfully  pale,  and  he  held  fast  by  the 
balusters  as  he  descended  the  stairs. 

I  pushed  open  the  door  and  entered  Pesca's 
room.  He  was  crouched  up,  in  the  strangest 
manner,  in  a  cornier  of  the  sofa.  He  seemed  to 
shrink  from  himself,  to  shrink  from  me,  when 
I  approached  him. 

"Am  I  disturbing  you?"  I  asked.  "I  did 
not  know  you  had  a  friend  with  you  till  I  saw 
him  come  out." 

"No  friend,"  said  Pesca,  eagerly.  "I  see 
him  to-day  for  the  first  time  and  the  last." 

"I  am  afraid  he  has  brought  you  bad  news?" 

"  Horrible  news,  Walter !  Let  us  go  back  to 
London  ;  I  don't  want  to  stop  here ;  I  am  sorry 
I  ever  came.  The  misfortunes  of  my  youth  are 
very  hard  upon  me,"  he  said,  turning  his  face 
to  the  wall;  "very  hard  upon  me  in  my  later 
time.  I  try  to  forget  them,  and  they  will  not 
forget  me .'" 

"  We  can't  return,  I  am  afraid,  before  the 
afternoon,"  I  replied.  "Would  you  like  to 
come  out  with  mc,  in  the  mean  time?" 

"No,  my  friend;  I  will  wait  here.  But  let 
us  go  back  to-day — ])ray  let  us  go  back. " 

I  left  him  with  the  assurance  that  he  should 
leave  Paris  that  afternoon.  We  had  arranged, 
the  evening  before,  to  ascend  the  Cathedral  of 
Notre-Dame,  with  Victor  Hugo's  noble  romance 
for  our  guide.  There  was  nothing  in  the  French 
cnjiital  that  I  was  more  anxious  to  see,  and  I 
dejiarted  by  myself  for  the  church. 

A])proaching  Notre-Dame  by  the  river-side, 
I  ])asscd,  on  my  way,  the  terrible  dead-house  of 
Paris — the  Morgue.  A  great  crowd  clamored 
and  heaved  round  the  door.    There  was  evident- 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


259 


ly  sometbing  i-nside  which  excited  the  popular  cu- 
riosity, and  fed  the  popular  apjietite  for  horror. 

I  should  have  walked  on  to  the  church  if  the 
conversation  of  two  men  and  a  woman  on  the 
outskirts  of  the  crowd  had  not  caught  my  ear. 
They  had  just  come  out  from  seeing  the  sight 
in  the  Morgue ;  and  the  account  they  were  giv- 
ing of  the  dead  body  to  their  neighbors  described 
it  as  the  corpse  of  a  man — a  man  of  immense 
size,  with  a  strange  mark  on  his  left  arm. 

The  moment  those  words  reached  me  I 
stopped,  and  took  my  place  with  the  crowd  go- 
ing in.  Some  dim  foreshadowing  of  the  truth 
had  crossed  my  mind  when  I  heard  Pesca's  voice 
through  the  open  door,  and  when  I  saw  the 
stranger's  face  as  he  passed  me  on  the  stairs 
of  the  hotel.  Now  the  truth  itself  was  revealed 
to  me — revealed  in  the  chance  words  that  had 
just  reached  my  ears.  Other  vengeance  than 
mine  had  followed  that  fiited  man  from  the  the- 
atre to  his  own  door;  from  his  own  door  to  his 
refuge  in  Paris.  Other  vengeance  than  mine 
had  called  him  to  the  day  of  reckoning,  and  had 
exacted  from  him  the  penalty  of  his  life.  The 
moment  when  I  had  pointed  him  out  to  Pesca 
at  the  theatre,  in  the  hearing  of  that  stranger  by 
our  side,  who  was  looking  for  him  too,  was  tlie 
moment  that  sealed  his  doom.  I  remembered 
the  struggle  in  my  own  lieart  when  he  and  I  stood 
face  to  face — the  struggle  before  I  could  let  him 
escape  me — and  shuddered  as  I  recalled  it. 

Slowly,  inch  by  inch,  I  pressed  in  with  the 
crowd,  moving  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  great 
glass  screen  that  parts  the  dead  from  the  living 
at  the  Morgue — nearer  and  nearer,  till  I  was 
close  behind  the  front  row  of  spectators,  and 
could  look  in. 

There  he  lay,  unowned,  unknown ;  exposed 
to  the  flippant  curiosity  of  a  French  mob — there 
was  the  dreadful  end  of  that  long  life  of  de- 
graded ability  and  heartless  crime !  Hushed  in 
the  sublime  repose  of  death,  the  broad,  firm, 
massive  face  and  head  fronted  us  so  grandly 
that  the  chattering  Frenchwomen  about  me  lift- 
ed their  hands  in  admiration,  and  cried,  in  shrill 
chorus,  "  Ah,  what  a  handsome  man !"  The 
wound  that  had  killed  him  had  been  struck  with 
a  knife  or  dagger  exactly  over  his  heart.  No 
other  traces  of  violence  appeared  about  the  body, 
except  on  the  left  arm ;  and  there,  exactly  in 
the  place  where  I  had  seen  the  brand  on  Pesca's 
arm,  were  two  deep  cuts  in  the  shape  of  the 
letter  T,  which  entirely  obliterated  the  mark 
of  the  Brotherhood.  His  clothes  hung  above 
him,  showed  that  he  had  been  himself  conscious 
of  his  danger — they  were  clothes  that  had  dis- 
guised him  as  a  French  artisan.  For  a  few  mo- 
ments, but  not  for  longei-,  I  forced  myself  to  see 
these  things  through  the  glass  screen.  I  can 
write  of  them  at  no  greater  length,  for  I  saw  no 
more. 

The  few  facts  in  connection  with  his  death, 
which  I  subsequently  ascertained  (partly  from 
Pesca  and  partly  from  other  sources),  may  be 
stated  here,  before  the  subject  is  dismissed  from 
these  jiages. 

His  body  was  taken  out  of  the  Seine,  in  the 
disguise  which  I  have  described  ;  nothing  being 
found  on  him  which  revealed  his  name,  his  rank, 
or  his  place  of  abode.  The  hand  that  struck 
him  was  never  traced,  and  the  circumstances  un- 


der which  he  was  killed  were  never  discovered. 
I  leave  others  to  draw  their  own  conclusions  in 
reference  to  the  secret  of  the  assassination,  as  I 
have  drawn  mine.  When  I  have  intimated  that 
the  foreigner  with  the  scar  was  a  Member  of 
the  Brotherhood  (admitted  in  Italy,  after  Pesca's 
departure  from  his  native  country),  and  when 
I  have  further  added  that  the  two  cuts,  in  the 
form  of  a  T,  on  the  left  arm  of  the  dead  man, 
signified  the  Italian  word  "Traditore,"  and 
showed  that  justice  had  beeij  done  by  the  Broth- 
erhood on  a  Traitor,  I  have  contributed  all  that 
I  know  toward  elucidating  the  mystery  of  Count 
Fosco's  death. 

The  body  was  identified  the  day  after  I  had 
seen  it  by  means  of  an  anonymous  letter  ad- 
dressed to  his  wife.  He  was  buried  by  Madame 
Fosco,  in  the  cemetery  of  Pere  la  Chaise.  Fresh 
funeral  wreaths  continue  to  this  day  to  be  hung 
on  the  ornamental  bronze  railings  round  the 
tomb  by  the  Countess's  own  hand.  She  lives 
in  the  strictest  retirement  at  Versailles.  Not 
long  since  she  publislied  a  Biograjihy  of  her 
deceased  husband.  The  work  throws  no  light 
whatever  on  the  name  that  was  really  his  own, 
or  on  the  secret  history  of  his  life  ;  it  is  almost 
entirely  devoted  to  the  praise  of  his  domestic 
virtues,  the  assertion  of  his  rare  abilities,  and 
the  enumeration  of  the  honors  conferred  on  him. 
The  circumstances  attending  his  deatli  are  very 
briefly  noticed  ;  and  are  summed  up  on  the  last 
page  in  this  sentence:  "His  life  was  one  long 
assertion  of  the  rights  of  the  aristocracy,  and 
the  sacred  princijjles  of  Order — and  he  died  a 
Martyr  to  his  cause." 

lu. 

Tlie  suiiiiuer  and  autumn  jtassed,  after  my 
return  from  Paris,  and  brought  no  changes  with 
them  which  need  be  noticed  here.  AVe  lived  so 
simply  and  quietly  that  the  income  which  I  was 
now  steadily  earning  sufficed  for  all  oixr  wants. 

In  the  February  of  the  new  year  our  first 
child  was  born — a  son.  My  mother  and  sister 
and  Mrs.  Vesey  were  our  guests  at  the  little 
christening  party,  and  Mrs.  Clements  was  ])res- 
ent  to  assist  my  wife  on  the  same  occasion. 
Marian  was  our  boy's  godmother,  and  Pesca 
and  Mr.  Gilmore  (the  latter  acting  by  proxy) 
were  his  godfathers.  I  may  add  here,  that,  when 
Mr.  Gilmore  returned  to  us,  a  year  later,  he 
assisted  the  design  of  these  pages,  at  my  re- 
quest, by  writing  the  Narrative  which  ap])ears 
early  in  the  story  under  his  name,  and  which, 
though  the  first  in  order  of  precedence,  was 
thus,  in  order  of  time,  the  last  that  I  received. 

The  only  event  in  our  lives  which  now  re- 
mains to  be  recorded  occurred  when  our  little 
Walter  was  six  months  old. 

At  that  time  I  was  sent  to  Ireland  to  make 
sketches  for  certain  forthcoming  illustrations  in 
the  newspaper  to  which  I  was  attached.  I  was 
away  for  nearly  a  fortnight,  corresponding  regu- 
larly with  my  wife  and  Marian,  except  during 
the  last  three  days  of  my  absence,  when  my 
movements  were  too  uncertain  to  enable  me  to 
receive  letters.  I  performed  the  latter  part  of 
my  journey  back  at  night,  and  when  I  reached 
home  in  the  morning,  to  my  utter  astonishment, 
there  was  no  one  to  receive  me.  Laura  and 
Marian  and  the  child  had  left  the  house  on  the 
day  before  my  return. 


260 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


A  note  from  my  wife,  ■nhich  was  given  to  me 
by  the  servant,  only  increased  my  surprise,  by 
informing  me  that  they  had  gone  to  Limmeridge 
House.  Marian  had  prohibited  any  attempt  at 
written  explanations — I  was  entreated  to  follow 
them  the  moment  I  came  back— complete  en- 
lightenment awaited  me  on  my  arrival  in  Cum- 
berland— and  I  was  forbidden  to  feel  the  slight- 
est anxiety  in  the  mean  time.  There  the  note 
ended. 

It  was  still  early  enough  to  catch  the  morn- 
ing train.  I  reached  Limmeridge  House  the 
same  afternoon. 

My  wife  and  Marian  were  both  up  stairs. 
They  had  established  themselves  (by  way  of 
completing  my  amazement)  in  the  little  room 
which  had  been  once  assigned  to  me  for  a  studio 
when  I  was  employed  on  Mr.  Fairlie's  drawings. 
On  the  very  chair  which  I  used  to  occupy  when 
I  was  at  work  Marian  was  sitting  now,  with  the 
child  industriously  sucking  his  coral  upon  her 
lap ;  while  Laura  was  standing  by  the  well-re- 
membered drawing-table  which  I  had  so  often 
nsed,  with  the  little  album  that  I  had  filled  for 
her  in  past  times  open  under  her  hand. 

"What  in  the  name  of  Heaven  has  brought 
you  here?"  I  asked.  "Does  Mr.  Fairlie 
know —  ?" 

Marian  suspended  the  question  on  my  lips  by 
telling  me  that  Mr.  Fairlie  was  dead.  He  had 
been  struck  by  paralysis,  and  had  never  rallied 
after  the  shock.  Mr.  Kyrle  bad  informed  them 
of  his  death,  and  had  advised  them  to  proceed 
immediately  to  Limmeridge  House. 


Some  dim  perception  of  a  great  change  dawn- 
ed on  my  mind.  Laura  spoke  before  I  had 
quite  realized  it.  She  stole  close  to  me  to  enjo" 
the  surprise  which  was  still  expressed  in  my  face". 

"My  darling  Walter,"  she  said,  "must  we 
really  account  for  our  boldness  in  coming  here? 
I  am  afraid,  love,  I  can  only  explain  it  by 
breaking  through  our  rule  and  referring  to  the 
past." 

"There  is  not  the  least  necessity  for  doing 
any  thing  of  the  kind,"  said  Marian.  "  We  can 
be  just  as  ex])licit,  and  much  more  interesting, 
by  referring  to  the  future."  She  rose,  and  held 
up  the  child,  kicking  and  crowing  in  her  arms. 
"  Do  you  know  who  this  is,  Walter.?"  she  asked, 
with  bright  tears  of  happiness  gathering  in  her 
eyes. 

"  Even  viy  bewilderment  has  its  limits,"  I  re- 
plied. "  I  think  I  can  still  answer  for  knowing 
my  own  child." 

"Child!"  she  exclaimed,  with  all  her  easy 
gayety  of  old  times.  "Do  }'ou  talk  in  that 
familiar  manner  of  one  of  the  landed  gentry  of 
England  ?  Are  you  aware,  when  I  present  this 
august  baby  to  your  notice,  in  whose  jDresence 
you  stand?  Evidently  not!  Let  me  make  two 
eminent  personages  known  to  one  another:  Mr. 
Walter  Hartright — the  Heir  of  Limmeridge. 

So  she  spoke.  In  writing  those  last  words  I 
have  written  all.  The  pen  falters  in  my  hand  ; 
the  long,  happy  labor  of  many  months  is  over! 
Marian  was  the  good  angel  of  our  lives — let 
Marian  end  our  Story. 


THE  ^ND. 


By  miss  mulock. 


The  Novels,  of  which  a  reprint  is  now  presented  to  the  puhlic,  form  one  of  the  most  admir- 
able series  of  popular  fiction  that  has  recently  been  issued  from  the  London  press.  They  are 
marked  by  their  faithful  delineation  of  character,  their  naturalness  and  purity  of  sentiment,  the 
dramatic- interest  of  their  plots,  their  beauty  and  force  of  expression,  and  their  elevated  moral 
tone.  No  current  Novels  can  be  more  highly  recommended  for  the  family  library,  while  their 
brilliancy  and  vivacity  will  make  them  welcome  to  every  reader  of  cultivated  taste. 


A  Ijife  for  a  Life. 

8vo,  Paper,  50  cents.     Library  Edi- 
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John  Halifax,  Gentleman. 

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Olive. 

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The  Ogilvies. 

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The  Head  of  the  Family. 

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Agatha's  Husband. 

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Our  Year: 

A  Child's  Book  in  Prose  and  Verse. 
Illustrated  by  Clarence  Dobell. 
ICmo,  Muslin. 


Studies  from  Life. 

12mo,  Muslin.     {In  Press.) 


A  Hero,  and  Other  Tales. 

A  Hero,  Bread  upon  the  Waters, 
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[JF^'om  the  North  British  Heview.'] 
MISS    MULOCK'S    NOVELS. 

She  attempts  to  show  how  the  trials,  perplexities,  joys,  sorrows,  labors,  and  successes  of 
life,  deepen  or  wither  the  character  according  to  its  inward  bent. 

She  cares  to  teach,  7iot  how  dishonesty  is  always  plunging  men  into  infinitely  more  com- 
plicated external  difficulties  than  it  would  in  real  life,  but  how  any  continued  insincerity  gradu- 
ally darkens  and  corrupts  the  very  life  springs  of  the  miud;  not  how  all  events  conspire  to  crush 
an  unreal  being  who  is  to  be  the  "example"  of  the  story,  but  how  every  event,  adverse  or  for- 
tunate, tends  to  strengthen  and  expand  a  high  mind,  and  to  break  the  springs  of  a  selfish  or 
merely  weak  and  self-indulgent  nature. 

She  does  not  limit  herself  to  domestic  conversations,  and  the  mere  shock  of  character  on 
character ;  she  includes  a  large  range  of  events — the  influence  of  worldly  successes  and  failures 
— the  risks  of  commercial  enterprises — the  power  of  social  position — in  short,  the  various  ele- 
ments of  a  wider  economy  than  that  generally  admitted  into  a  tale. 

She  has  a  true  respect  for  her  work,  and  never  permits  herself  to  "make  books,"  and  yet 
she  has  evidently  very  great  facility  in  making  them. 

There  are  few  writers  who  have  exhibited  a  more  marked  progress,  whether  in  freedom  of 
touch  or  in  depth  of  purpose,  than  the  authoress  of  "The  Ogilvies"  and  "John  Halifax." 

Published  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  Franklin  Square,  New  York. 


IIaepee  &  Ceothees  will  send  either  of  the  above  Works  by  Mail,  postage  paid  (for  any  disiancc  in  the  United 

States  under  3000  miles),  on  receipt  of  the  Money. 


THE   MILL   ON   THE   FLOS 


A  NOVEL. 


By  GEORGE    ELIOT. 

ATJTUOE   OP 

"ADAM  BEDE,"  and  "SCENES  OF  CLERICAL  LIFE." 
Library  Edition,  12ino,  Muslin,  $1  00 ;  Cheap  Edition,  8vo,  Paper,  50  cents. 


From  Blackwood's  Magazine. 
We  need  no  title-page  to  inform  us  that  the  "  Mill  on 
the  Floss"  is  by  the  author  of  "Adaui  Bede."  It  is 
scarcely  possible  tliat  it  should  meet  with  a  warmer  wel- 
eome  tlian  its  predecessors ;  it  would  be  an  ungratelul 
comparison  to  say  that  it  deserves  it.  Yet  if  we  are  to 
treat  it  merely  as  a  7iovii,  in  point  of  dramatic  interest 
it  is  incontestably  superior.  There  is  the  same  keen  in- 
sight into  nature,  tlie  same  truth  and  force  of  descrip- 
tion, the  same  bright  and  graceful  humor  ;  but  the  story, 
which  in  "  Adani  IJede"  was  subordinate  to  the  other  at- 
tractions of  the  book,  is  here  one  of  its  greatest  charms. 

From  the  Literary  Gazette,  London. 
We  wish  to  assert  for  the  writer  of  '••  Adam  Bede"  and 
"  The  Mill  on  the  Floss"  a  place  among  the  great  mak- 
ers—  among  that  goodly  company  wlio  have  given  us 
nobler  loves  and  nobler  fear-.  *  *  *  We  should  never  end 
if  we  attempted  to  state  in  detail  the  excellence  ot  tlie 
individual  representations  contained  in  this  remarkable 
book.  From  the  beginning  to  the  end  we  have  to  notice 
the  same  wonderful  freshness  and  truth  of  drawing  in  all 
of  them.  The  story  is  simple  but  profoundly  touching, 
because  the  correspondence  between  the  feelings  and  the 
facts  is  always  so  well  maintained.  *  *  We  do  not  think 
we  remember  any  book  in  which  the  good  and  evil  of 
our  nature  is  so  clearly  held  up  to  us.  It  is  a  book 
which  may  teach  us  to  understand  our  own  hearts  and 
the  hearts  of  our  friends  better. 

From  the  Saturday  Review,  London. 
She  has  done  ns  all  one  great  kindness,  for  she  has 
opened  up  a  field  that  is  perfectly  new.  *  ** George  Eliot 
possesses  the  art  of  taking  the  reader  into  her  confidence. 
We  seem  to  share  with  the  authoress  the  fun  of  the  play 
she  is  now  showing  us.  She  joins  us  in  laughing  at  our 
characters,  and  yet  this  is  done  so  lightly  and  with  such 
tact  that  the  continuity  of  the  story  is  not  broken.  •* 
The  "Mill  on  the  Floss"'  shows  that  George  Eliot  has 
thought  as  keenly  and  profoundly  as  the  authoress  of 
"Jane  Eyre"  on  the  peculiar  difficulties  and  sorrows  en- 
countered by  a  girl  of  quick  feeling  and  high  aspira- 
tions under  adverse  circumstances. 

.  From  the  Leader  and  Saticrday  Anahjsf,  London. 

The  story  is  worked  out  with  a  masterly  hand.  •  * 
The  authoress's  command  of  language  enables  her  to  de- 
pict the  several  stages  of  this  great  self-struggle  with 
wonderful  intensity  and  accuracy.  She  suffers  no  thread 
to  escape  her  in  the  complicated  meshes  of  human  feel- 
ing; but  in  all  her  characters  dives  into  the  very  root  and 
core  of  all  their  thoughts,  actions,  and  emotions,  pre- 
senting us  with  an  insight  into  these  hidden  mysteries, 
which  years  of  practical  experience  could  scarcely  have 
accomplished. 

Fro')n  the  Portland  Advertiser. 
It  is  one  of  the  most  touching  and  beautiful  stories  in 
the  English  language. 

From  the  Brooklyn  Eagle. 
The  writer's  wonderful  mastery  of  language,  her  burn- 
ing, passionate  rlietoric,  and  her  minute  delineation  of 
mental  struggles. 


From  the  Boston  Tramcript. 
The  author  of  this  novel  has  no  superior  in  extent  and 
nicety  of  observation,  in  breadth,  depth,  and  keenue^-s 
of  thought,  and  in  general  solidity  and  strength  of  na- 
ture. She  is  unmistakably  a  scholar  and  thinker  as  well 
as  romancei'.  *  *  If  Dickens,  or  Thackeray,  or  Buhver, 
or  Kingsley  is  preferred  to  the  author  of  this  novel,  the 
preference  is  not  based  on  the  mental  superiority  of  either. 
This  novel  evinces  a  sagacity,  power,  and  amplitude  of 
understanding  whicli  would  do  no  discredit  to  the  proud- 
est male  celebrity  of  the  day. 

From  the  New  Hampshire  Patriot,  Concord. 

The  correctness  and  simplicity  of  style,  the  frequent 
flashes  of  humor,  the  keen  insight  into  human  motive.", 
the  undercurrent  of  deep  and  tender  feeling,  the  quiet 
reuse  of  the  beautiful  in  nature  or  in  character,  the  se- 
lection of  characters  from  the  lower  classes  of  society, 
the  tendenry  to  minuteness  in  description,  the  vivid 
painting  of  slight  bnt  characteristic  personal  peculiari- 
ties, are  all  familiar  and  welcome. 

From  the  Evening  Bulletin,  Philadelphia. 

It  will  be,  wliat  so  many  books  that  profess  to  be  are 
not,  tlie  book  of  tlie  season.  Such  writing  and  such  in- 
timate and  tender  philosophy  are  irresistible.  *  *  The 
style  is  a.'^  original  and  beautiful  as  that  tif  ''Adam 
Bede."  It  abounds  with  strong  homely  phrases  and  ex- 
cellent adages,  and  earnest  .''axonism  (for  tliere  is  no 
other  word)  of  all  sorts;  and  is  imbued  with  religious 
earnestness.  The  book  will  be  as  much  read  as  "  Adam 
Bede,''  and  will  not,  we  believe,  fail  of  very  general  rec- 
ognition as  one  of  the  best  books  of  the  age. 

From  the  Boston  Journal. 
The  more  prominent  excellences  of  the  work  are  its 
simple  and  finished  plot,  its  steadj',  onward  movement, 
its  perpetually  deepening  interest,  and  its  close,  which, 
for  artistic  conception  and  execution,  is  worthy  the  pages 
which  precede  it.  It  is  marked  also  by  genuine  creative 
genius,  by  an  insight  into  character  at  once  keen  and 
delicate,  and  a  power  of  so  translating  it  into  action  that 
the  one  is  indeed  the  exponent  and  inevitable  result  of 
the  other.  The  incidents  arise  in  a  succession  whicli 
seems  a  matter  of  course,  and  the  conversations  are  as 
characteristic  as  the  shaping  of  the  different  lives.  *  * 
The  descriptions  are  graphic,  the  humor  is  rich,  the  sen- 
timent healthful,  and  the  style  unsurpassed  for  lucid- 
ness  and  flexibility.  Deep,  true,  and  fascinating,  it  ex- 
hibits throughout  the  hand  of  a  master. 

From  the  Worcester  Palladium. 

George  Eliot,  or  whoever  he  or  she  may  he  who  wrote 
this  hook,  has  a  wonderful  power  in  giving  an  air  of  in- 
tense reality  to  whatever  scene  is  presented,  whatever 
character  is  portrayed.  It  is  the  display  of  a  rare  gift  of 
analysis  of  human  character  and  conduct.  The  book 
will  fascinate  with  its  earnest  truthfulness. 

From  the  Bosto7i  Cornier. 
Bright,  powerful,  and  interesting. 

From  the  Troy  Whig. 
A  story  of  power,  beauty,  .and  absorbing  interest. 


Published  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  Franklin  Square,  New  York. 


J^'  Hakper  &  Brotiieeb  will  send  "  The  Mill  on  the  Floss"  by  Mnil,  postage  prepaid,  to  any  part  of  tho  United 

States,  on  r^cei./t  of  ^j-l  00. 


Haepek  &  Beotuebs  will  send  either  of  tbe  following  Works  by  Mail,  to  any  part  of  the  United  States,  postage  prepaid, 

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LIBRARY  OF  SELECT  NOVELS. 


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ir.i. 

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r 'r 'f  ?//»,  f, v. 


mmm 

iiiiiii 


^'m/j 


